


Omens Of Another Kind

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussions & References to Sex, Dullahan Crowley, Fae pregnancy, Fairy AU, Fairy Queen Aziraphale, Fluff, Human gender norms do not apply, Humour, Implied Sexual Content, Irish Folklore, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Prophecies, Royal court dynamics, Scottish Folklore, Slow Burn, artistic licence with folklore, folklore AU, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 188,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Crowley is the Dullahan, a notorious omen of death. Happily ever after isn’t in the job description; he’ll soon meet someone who begs to disagree.(Good Omens Folklore AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands - Relationship
Series: Good Omens AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 2165
Kudos: 1286
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Non Human AUs, Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens AUs, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. Prologue: What’s In A Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a taster chapter, I’m still in the process of writing the rest of the story, but I need a little boost to keep me going so I figured I’d put this out there and see if people like it. Once I get enough written then I’ll start posting chapters on a regular basis but until then, enjoy this little introduction!
> 
> Please bear in mind that the tags and summary are subject to change until I begin posting regularly :)

Crows began to gather in the treetops, darkening the sky that shone through the pine needles in irregular patches. A chill breeze blew threw the woods. Following it, a set of jet black hooves ambled over the path; the air crystallised as the black mare gave a hefty sigh. She was sick of hearing her master grumbling on and on... 

"Bloody human maps," Crowley said, adjusting his position in the saddle. He turned the sheet of parchment around a different way, holding it up to the watery sunlight as if that might help. "They must have been sloshed when they drew this. Why isn’t there a scale?"

He huffed, continuing to fumble with the map while his horse led the way through the trees. They'd travelled some distance from home, and her glittering red eyes were beginning to slide shut with fatigue. She didn't technically need to sleep - no more than she needed carrots and fresh clover - but she certainly liked it. As she traipsed onward, she failed to notice the rubble around them. Grey stone loomed amidst the pine trees, remnants of a castle which had never stood, forming half-toppled walls and weatherbeaten staircases leading to nothing but a sharp fall. Her master was too wrapped up in complaining about human cartography to notice when they passed beneath a vast freestanding archway, and into another realm entirely. 

All around him, the character of the forest changed dramatically. Birds struck up an uplifting chorus of chirps, the sun blazed proudly onto the dusty ground, and the path was flanked by trees whose boughs stooped under the weight of ripe, appealing summer fruits. Even the air carried a fresh, verdant smell. His horse gave a start, whinnying in alarm.

For the first time in at least an hour, he was forced to look up from his map. "Oi - hey! Don't you dare throw me off again!" he barked, tugging on the reins. The horse calmed after a moment, though her eyes remained wide and feral. Crowley cast an eye around curiously. "Uh, right... where the Hell are we?"

He slid out of the saddle, deciding to proceed on foot from here. Frightening people was easy enough as it was, being a stranger in their neighbourhood. It wouldn't help if they recognised him for what he really was, too... He looked tentatively from side to side, noticing the odd few towers and high walls dotted about between the trees. They were well-built, sturdy, with polished granite faces all the way around. As his eyes dragged across the top of a wall, he almost missed the pale figure sat on top, facing away from him.

_Ah! A human,_ he thought to himself. _I can ask for directions._

He was about to call up to him, but hesitated. He glanced at his horse. "Sorry, girl," he said, tying the reins to a low-hanging branch nearby. "The red eyes would give us away."

Crowley, for all that he knew it was sort of his job to scare people, well... he didn't enjoy it much. All the screaming and the weeping and the chaos were just a bit much for him. Too melodramatic. No one ever asked if he wanted to scare people though, did they? No! They were all too busy screaming _By God, it's the Dullahan! Run for your lives!_ to strike up anything resembling a civil conversation. As he mounted the staircase to the top of the wall, he pushed back his hood, and donned a pair of dark glasses. All the myths said that he was a headless horseman*, so a very visibly attached head should be a good place to start when it came to hiding his true nature. 

*While it was true that he could detach his head, if he really wanted, he preferred not to. It put a monster of a crick in his neck afterward. 

As he reached the top of the wall, he cleared his throat. "Uh, hi," he said with a friendly smile, drawing the man’s attention, who had shut his eyes to savour his lunch. 

"Mph - " he mumbled, caught off-guard. He quickly swallowed the mouthful he'd been having and awkwardly smiled back, wiping the edges of his mouth. "Hello there..."

"Hi, yeah, it's - uh, good to meet you," he said uncomfortably, trying to stop himself from fidgeting. He'd never been very good at talking to attractive men, even if they were only human. This one, with such striking blue eyes and hair so pale it almost glowed, was definitely enough to undercut his entire suave demeanour. There was a beat of silence.

"Would you... like to sit down?" the man asked, hesitantly gesturing to a sunny patch on the wall beside him. There was an unfurled roll of silk on the stone, laid out with various fruits, breads and sweet cakes. It looked like he was just eating lunch. "You look awfully tired."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "S’pose I am, a bit," he said, taking him up on the offer. He'd always enjoyed some sunshine when he could come by it, especially so deep in the winter months. He felt suddenly out-of-place; it would be rude to just launch straight into asking for directions when he'd just been invited to sit down. The man was clearly expecting some sort of conversation. Something, anything - come on, think... "Funny that the sun's so bright this time of year, don't you think?"

The blond squinted up toward the blue sky. "Not especially. It's always sunny here," he replied, reaching for another piece of fruit. 

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, obviously, but - " he began, then stopped himself. He couldn't very well ask _‘...but where is here, exactly?’_ He'd look like a right idiot. Floundering, he shrugged his shoulders, and leaned back on his palms in what he hoped was a very cool and relaxed manner. "S'not the same everywhere, is it?"

"I suppose not," he replied, amused and a little thrown off. "And what is it like where you come from, Mister...?"

"Crowley. It's - uh, Anthony Crowley," he replied. He cursed himself for stuttering, and then again for giving out his first name. He usually introduced himself as AJ, on the rare occasion he had to. Names were power, and the Dullahan's full name would be a very rare prize indeed. A very dangerous one, too. At least he still had one last initial separating him from total servitude. "Where I'm from, it's cold in winter. Frost on the ground, grey skies, that sort of thing."

He hummed. "Interesting," he said, and the comment seemed genuine. He sipped at the water by his side. "And what brings you here?"

He muttered something unintelligible. 

"Pardon?"

"I'm lost," he repeated, louder this time, crossing his arms. 

"Is that so? You poor thing," he said pityingly, and continued to eat from his small spread of food. "My name is Aziraphale, by the way."

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he'd heard him right. "Right," he said slowly. Aziraphale happily kept chewing, oblivious. "So... yeah. Lost. In these woods."

"Yes, so you said," he replied conversationally. "Do tell me more about this home of yours. I don't often get to see much beyond this forest, you see."

The pieces suddenly seemed to slot into place. Ah... Crowley had accidentally stumbled across a strangely well-groomed hermit. He'd probably gone a bit mad, this far from civilisation. Deciding to humour him, he sighed and began to tell him anything that came to mind. He talked about the autumn harvests, what crops grew well in the soil there, and the wild game that lived in the surrounding fields. Aziraphale was enthralled by it. It was quite endearing, really. He'd occasionally chip in with a question, but was otherwise content to listen. 

"And there's this bloke who lives near me - Newt, his name is - he's always bothering me about how to look after his plants," he said in amusement. Newt was a fellow Unseelie fairy, with little reason to fear the Dullahan. "He came up to me last Autumn in a right state. AJ, AJ, he said, my oak tree's fallen down. So, I said - "

"AJ?" Aziraphale interrupted, tilting his head slightly. 

"Hm? Yeah, s'just a J really," he said thoughtlessly, ready to plunge back into his tale.

"Anthony J Crowley..." he murmured, rolling the words back and forth across his tongue. Crowley's heart gave a sickening lurch, realising his mistake. "What a lovely name."

He swallowed hard. "Thanks," he said tightly. A string of vile profanities shot through his head at an impressive rate. "You - uh, you'll keep that to yourself though, right?"

"Hm? Oh! Of course, of course. Queen's honour," he replied jovially, beaming. Crowley's stomach gave another violent twist. Aziraphale carried on obliviously. "I must say, I'm surprised you told me. How admirably trusting you are, my dear boy... though I must discourage you from bandying your name around willy-nilly. Not all fairies are quite so affable."

"You're - You- a _Queen?_ A fairy Queen?" he said in disbelief. His eyes darted around the scene before him, taking it in anew. He'd been an idiot. He'd been the biggest bloody idiot this side of the grave, the signs were all here! Right in front of his face! The sunshine, the songbirds, the ripe summer fruit, all in the dead of winter... He wasn't in the human realm anymore. Somewhere along the way, he'd wandered into a Seelie Court. 

"I am," he replied, fixing him with a quizzical look. "Didn't you know?"

He shook his head slowly. Aziraphale looked sheepishly down at his hands, pouting sadly.

"Oh. Oh dear," he said. If Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d have said he sounded sympathetic. There was a moment of tension. "In that case... you have made a bit of a blunder, haven't you?"

"Yeah. No shit," he mumbled, his words half-muffled as he pressed his hand against his mouth. He suddenly leapt to his feet, backing away toward the steps, reluctant to turn his back on the Queen. "Look, I should - I should go - "

Aziraphale sat up a little straighter. "Already?" he said, sounding almost hurt. "But we were having such a lovely chat."

Crowley held up his hands with a nervous smile. "Yeah. Course, but you know, I'm lost and - and hanging around here can't be a good idea after dark," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes, I agree," he said, standing up. Now he was on his feet, Crowley could see the subtle shimmer on the cream-and-brown fabrics he wore, a classic hallmark of fairy clothing. "I'd much rather you join my court for the night. I'd never forgive myself if something terrible happened to you in my own realm."

"No need. I can handle myself," he said, reaching back with his foot in a vain attempt to find the first step down toward the ground. 

"Now, don't be foolhardy. I really must insist," he said with a pout.

Crowley's whole essence seized up for an instant. He sucked in a tiny breath, feeling an invasive prickling sensation down his spine. The more he wrestled with the feeling, trying to banish it, the worse it got. "N - No, I'm... I'm fine," he said, through gritted teeth. The feeling quickly redoubled. Like a rush of cold water, he realised why; he was refusing a direct order. The Queen had his name, and now, his word was law.

"My, are you all right?" Aziraphale asked in sudden concern, taking a step closer. He didn't even seem to realise what was happening. "You've gone awfully pale."

He swallowed hard. "I'll stay," he said hoarsely. Immediately, the tension released from his spine, and he took a deep gasp of air. 

"Good Lord, what has come over you all of a sudden?" Aziraphale continued, holding out a hand as if to help him stand. "Has it passed?"

Crowley drew back in mistrust. "Yeah. It's gone," he said hesitantly. Surely, he couldn't be this naive... 

"Good," he said, offering a smile and trying not to be stung by his sour disposition. "It's settled, then. You'll stay in my court for the night, where it's nice and safe. Yes?"

Aziraphale was buzzing. So much so, he didn't really pay much attention to the red eyes of Crowley's horse, which should have been a clear warning sign. He'd heard of the Dullahan, yes, but had he even stopped to consider that a fae of myth and legend would stumble unwittingly into his realm? Of course not. The main thing on Aziraphale's mind was simply conversation. 

Life at court, for a Queen, was supposed to be idyllic. Perhaps it was... if the Queen in question was a vain, weak, over-sensitive, fragile puppet leader with no inclination to do much else but laugh and look pretty. For all his power, Aziraphale had never been treated like he wanted to be. When this tall, dark stranger had approached him, apropos of nothing in his favourite spot for a quiet lunch, he'd been stunned. He should have guessed that he had no idea he was a Queen! Only a fool would've knowingly greeted him without so much as a bow. He was lucky Aziraphale wasn't so easily offended. In fact, he found it fantastically refreshing. It was the first time in years that he hadn't been wrapped in cotton wool and put on a pedestal. 

"I do hope you'll like the city. There are some remarkable restaurants in the centre, if you'd care to try some," he enthused as they walked along the cobbled path, toward the citadel which quickly emerged from the woods. It was like no other Crowley had ever seen. 

The great walls of the city were a mixture of stone, earth and veins of creeping ivy so enormous that a single leaf was broader than Crowley was tall. As they passed under the gate, and the guards bowed to their Queen, he could already hear the shocked whispers left in their wake. Clearly, the horse's eyes hadn't gone unnoticed by everyone. 

The streets were lined with homes carved out from natural forest growths. Willow houses seemed to be very popular, since the sinuous branches could be convinced to grow into very specific shapes. At odd intervals, some enterprising fairies had used enormous porous boulders to make their homes, or even constructed their own tipis from fallen oak branches, waterproofed with ivy leaves from the citadel walls. Everyone merrily greeted Aziraphale, bowing and curtsying as he passed them by with a warm smile and a wave. The shocked whispers always followed close afterward as he trailed the Queen. Crowley kept his head down. Was this some sick power play? Parading his new pet Dullahan through the streets...? Looking at the serene expression he wore, revelling in the eternal sunshine warming his face, he could scarcely believe it. 

Finally, they reached the centrepiece of the city: the impossibly vast, towering blossom tree, whose roots were eons deep and whose white petals rippled gently in the breeze. "I thought blossoms were a springtime thing," Crowley commented dumbly, mostly to himself, admiring the tremendous beauty overhead. 

"Human ones, perhaps. Not this one," Aziraphale replied knowingly, preening when he saw the appreciation on his face. "This is my origin, where the whole court began all those years ago."

"Oh," he said, with a small nod. To his knowledge, fairy Queens only came from two places: particular enchanted trees, or from other fairy Queens. This one must be a first-generation royal. An old one, too, judging by the immense size of the tree; maybe even as old as Crowley himself. "It's very impressive."

"Thank you," he said, giving a small wriggle of happiness. On a better day, Crowley might have even smiled. Instead, he steeled himself as he trailed the Queen up the steps, carrying them over the sinuous mass of roots, up to the ornate double doors built into the tree trunk. As it stood, he was just clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he might still escape this court with his dignity intact.

Gabriel kept checking the time, pacing across the throne room in agitation. The Queen liked eating alone, as everyone knew, but he rarely took so long over it. If he knew where he disappeared to every afternoon, he'd have gone looking, but Aziraphale was very secretive about his private spaces. Only those irritating little servant children knew where he went, and they were impressively loyal, even in the face of bribery. Then again, he supposed, who better to expect rewards from than the Queen? Gabriel himself had been trying to wrangle his fair share of benefits out of him for enough years now, after all. Oh, if only the tables had been turned, and _Gabriel_ had been the one in charge instead - 

The throne room doors rattled for a moment, before swinging open. The members of the court stood to attention immediately, all eyes on the door. Aziraphale stepped into the hall first, but attention quickly slipped off of him, and onto the slim, dark figure trailing behind with a sullen slump in his shoulders. 

"Hello again," he said, attempting to dispel their rapt attention. "Go about your business, nothing to see. All perfectly normal."

Gabriel exchanged a glance with Sandalphon. "Excuse the curiosity, your majesty," he spoke up with a false corporate smile. "But aren't you going to introduce your... friend?"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, as if surprised to have been asked. Crowley rolled his shoulders and avoided his gaze, burning beneath the hard stares from the court fae. He just wanted him to get this part over with. 

"This is Crowley," he said finally. "We met while I was having lunch. He makes excellent conversation, I think you'll like him. Now please, talk amongst yourselves, there's really no need for a hullabaloo."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, as if hearing the word hullabaloo had physically pained him. The court reluctantly began to resume their conversations, and he quickly chased after Aziraphale as he wove his way through the small crowd. They barely got halfway into the room before they were intercepted by the purple-eyed fairy and his shorter companion. 

"Hello sire," said the short one with a greasy smile. Crowley immediately wrinkled his nose at him.

"Hello, Sandalphon. Gabriel," he replied nervously, fiddling with his hands in a distinctly un-regal manner. That drew Crowley's attention; he seemed more skittish talking to members of his own court than he was talking to a stranger in the woods. "Can I help you?"

"We were just wondering about," Gabriel began, flicking his eyes shamelessly over to the redhead, "him."

He huffed. "I told you. He's a friend."

"But he's - you know," he said, making a vague gesture with one hand, looking to his friend as if for help. 

"Unseelie," Sandalphon said bluntly.

"Yes. Yes, that's it. No offence," Gabriel said to Crowley with a superficial chuckle. He curled his lip, crossing his arms in obvious offence. Ignoring that, Gabriel looked back at the Queen. "You can understand our concern. I mean, it's not every day we have a visitor from the other realm, unless we're at war."

"Are we at war, sire?"

"No!" Aziraphale cried in alarm, squaring his shoulders. "We're not at war. Crowley isn't a threat because - well, I have his name, you see. Which I don't intend to misuse! I just... have it."

Gabriel blinked in surprise. Already, that particular grain of gossip was spreading among courtiers who were pretending not to eavesdrop. "Is that so?" he said, pulling an appreciative face. He looked at Crowley again, this time appraising him like a subpar animal brought to market. 

He stood straighter, rage sparking in his gut. He'd had enough people insult him behind his back in his life, and this fairy had some gall to do it to his face. He wasn't about to stand for it. Clearly, if he wanted to keep his dignity, he'd have to fight for it. "You'd probably know me by reputation," he said tightly.

Gabriel arched a brow sceptically. "Will I?"

Aziraphale looked between the two men helplessly, wondering when exactly this conversation had passed out of his hands. "Oh yes," Crowley replied with a cocky grin. He held out his hand to shake. "The Dullahan. Pleasure to meet you."

The room fell deadly silent. With a gulp that he tried to hide, Gabriel shook his hand. "Likewise," he said quietly, and pulled his hand back very quickly as soon as he released it. 

Aziraphale had gone very still. _Did he just say - ? No, it can't have been... I must have misheard. Must have. He can't be the Dullahan, he's far too friendly; and he has a head, for a start! A very handsome one at that..._ He suddenly shook himself, realising that his thoughts were beginning to lapse away from the matter at hand. With a small cough, he leaned toward Crowley slightly.

"Sorry, what was that, dear?" he said politely.

"I said, I'm the Dullahan," he repeated clearly. He stared expectantly at him, half-cognisant of the way the other courtiers had begun to back away from him in fear. "Well?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath through his nose. "Oh. Oh dear," he said, staring vacantly at the floor. "Now, that is a turn of events..."

The court panicked. A clever few escaped through the side-entrances, while most simply huddled near the edges of the room in a chattering wall of terror. It had sort of put a kibosh on Aziraphale’s plan for a quiet afternoon in. Thinking on his feet, he collared an attendant, ordering them to find somewhere for Crowley to go, to ease the unrest. The Dullahan protested for a moment, shying away from the attendant, until he met Aziraphale’s pleading gaze. His eyes dragged across the court, taking in the atmosphere of anxiety, anger and criticism already bubbling over. He’d caused a scene. Guiltily, he let the attendant take his arm, and lead him away from the throne room. Aziraphale stared after him, desperately apologetic, as he went. Crowley didn’t break eye contact until the door swung shut behind him. While still himself reeling from the realisation of his true identity, the court immediately flooded Aziraphale with questions. He tried several times to raise his voice over the chaos, to no avail. He was losing control, fast, and he suddenly regretted sending Crowley away. If he had been here, perhaps they’d have thought twice about crowding around him. 

"Where did you find him?"

"How did you trick him into giving up his name?"

"Did he come to foretell a death? Are we in danger?"

He looked desperately between the faces crowding around him, overwhelmed."No! There's no danger, none at all. It's all absolutely tip-top, tickety-boo, not a thread out of place," he said, unconsciously backing away toward the door. "And I didn't _trick_ him, it was just a - a strange happenstance. Nothing to worry about."

"Why is he here, Aziraphale?" Gabriel spoke up, his voice carrying over the general unrest. He stared at him, and Aziraphale cringed slightly under the intensity. Not many of his courtiers took it upon themselves to call him by his first name.

"No reason," he blurted out in a panic, grasping for the door handle behind his back. He gave a strained smile, his hand closing around it. "Do excuse me."

He slammed the door behind him as soon as he was clear of the throne room, leaning against it for a moment. He puffed out his cheeks, releasing a long breath. Not wanting to be caught out again, he quickly made his way down the halls, his shoes clacking against the smooth floors. He looked to and fro, wondering where his guest might be.

"Good Lord, this is terribly embarrassing," he mumbled, pressing his palm briefly against the wall. For a split second, his senses cut out, reducing him to the sightless, soundless experience of his tree. He felt every room nestled within its vast trunk, and quickly located the restless mass of dark energy contained very close-by to his human-shaped corporation. His eyes snapped back open, and he quickly trailed the fading sensation to a nearby spare room.

He knocked gently on the door. "May I...?"

Crowley surprised him by opening the door himself. "What?"

"Oh. Erm, hello again," he said with a sheepish smile. Crowley's face didn't change. Aziraphale swallowed hard, dropping the smile in favour of a more serious expression. "Rightio. Um. I was just coming to make sure you weren't, ah, offended."

He arched a brow, leaning against the doorframe. "Offended?" he said. "Of course I'm bloody offended. Question is, why do you care?"

He blinked, taken aback. "Well, it's only polite," he said. Now, it was Crowley's turn to be surprised. "May I come in?"

He stepped aside, gesturing into the vacant room. It was sparsely furnished, with little more than a standing wardrobe, bed and an extra door into a small bathroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed as Aziraphale milled around awkwardly by the window, which looked out onto one of the vast blossom branches reaching over the city.

"So?" Crowley prompted.

"So what?"

"So, what are going to do with me? You've got my name. You know what that means," he said tensely, leaning forward on his knees and watching his face suspiciously. "The Dullahan's true name... That's a lot of power for one Queen."

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. "More than I know what to do with, I imagine," he said, almost dismissively.

"W - Wh - ? More than you - ?" Crowley stammered, sitting up slightly in surprise. "What? You could do anything. Send me to hunt down your enemies, wage war on a neighbouring realm, rule with an iron fist... that sort of thing."

He tilted his head. "Why on earth would I want that?" he said, giving a small shudder. "Sounds like a terrible mess."

"Well... yeah," he said dumbly. "It would be."

"Then what was the point in saying it?" he said impatiently. He rolled his eyes. "Honestly."

"Hey!" he protested, standing up. "You can't blame me for thinking you'd want a hand, having to rule over that lot. Are they always that stuck-up?"

"I'm afraid so," he said in exasperation, surprising Crowley again. "But I don't need you to intimidate them for me. I have it all in hand."

"Course you do," he replied sceptically, beginning to saunter around the edges of the room, poking around at the trinkets on the bedside table. He shot a knowing glance. "Can't be fun, though."

"It isn't," he said pitifully, taking a step closer. "Please, if it's not too much to ask... Would you stay for dinner? I don't think I could bear another round of those questions on my own."

He fiddled with his hands slightly, fixing a remarkably good 'kicked puppy' expression onto the other fairy. Crowley was taken in by it for a split second before shaking himself free with a scoff. "You can just order me to stay. You don't have to make that face."

"I suppose I could," he said, looking at his feet. He tentatively lifted his eyes back to Crowley, imploring, and pointedly _not_ ordering him to do anything.

He huffed, pretending not to be relieved. "All right. I'll stay," he said, then jabbed a finger at him. "But only for tonight."

"Oh, oh thank you!" he said, a beaming grin spreading over his face. "You won't regret it, my dear, I'm absolutely certain."

"Should bloody hope not..." he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks again to CrazyBeCat for helping me to develop my story & concept for this AU, they really are a treasure <3


	2. Hullabaloo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we’re rolling! Ready to entertain you all in these tough times, and hopefully provide a bit of much-needed escapism. Hope you enjoy!

Crowley hesitated by the door. Plenty of familiar faces from his brief run-in with the court were steadily filtering into the dining room, eyeing him with suspicion and surprise. Among the pastel tones of the drapes and tapestries across the hall, his black clothes made him stick out like a sore thumb. He held his nerve. If he kept a stony mask, hopefully, he wouldn't give away his ignorance of court etiquette. He stuck close to Aziraphale's side, following him along the length of the dining table.

"Why are they all just milling around?" he asked quietly, looking suspiciously at the assembled fae. The hostility in the air was almost tangible. 

"They're waiting for me," he replied, with a touch of self-consciousness. "Just a tradition, really. I often feel like I'm up to my eyeballs in traditions these days."

"Why don't you just change them, then?" he said, appraising the meticulously laid table adorned with a white cloth, centrepieces of willow and bluebells, and silver plates. "You're in charge, aren't you?"

He turned, faltering for a moment. "Change them?" he said, unsure whether to smile or grimace at so novel a suggestion. "I - I can't just change thousands of years of routine!"

"Why not?" he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and tilting his head expectantly.

Aziraphale squirmed. "Let's sit down, shall we?" he said uncomfortably, hurrying over to the high-backed chair at the head of the table. 

Crowley watched him curiously, beginning to gauge what sort of leader he was. Tied to traditions and decorum that he'd established eons ago as a young Queen, maybe, and now scared to change after all this time. Rolling his shoulders as if to rid himself of too much hard thinking, he pulled out a chair beside the Queen and threw himself down unceremoniously. As the rest of the court moved to sit down, he did his best to relax, slouching until he was comfortable and resting his chin on his fist.

"So, what's for dinner?" he asked, already getting sick of the side-glances he was getting from all the way down the table.

"You're in for a treat. I believe it's seafood," he said, looking hopefully toward the doors as if he could summon the food just by wishful thinking. "My head chef Petronius can do remarkable things to oysters."

"I've never eaten an oyster," he said, taking a sip from the glass of water by his plate. 

"Oh, well, let me tempt you!" he said with great enthusiasm. Crowley smirked slightly, bemused by how quickly he'd abandoned his regal pretences. 

"Temptation accomplished," he joked, putting the glass back on the table. The chair beside him shrieked suddenly on the hardwood floor, making him flinch and twist around to glare at whoever had touched it. 

Gabriel sat down with a tight smile. "Your majesty," he said, nodding to Aziraphale before even deigning to look at Crowley. "And... Crawly, was it?"

"Crowley," he corrected sourly.

"Like the bird," Aziraphale said helpfully. "All omens for the same thing, aren't they? Crows, the Dullahan, and so forth. I'm sure it'll be a doddle to remember."

Gabriel hummed in agreement, his shoulders solid with tension. "I have to ask... I haven't been demoted, have I, sire?" he said, joking, although his voice was utterly devoid of levity. He shot a pointed look at Crowley. 

"Hm? Oh, no! Of course not, Gabriel, not at all," he said, laughing uneasily. He shook his head. "Crowley is my honoured guest, that's all."

Crowley looked between the two of them in confusion. Where had all that come from? Gabriel took one look at him and scoffed. "And does he even understand why that matters?"

"Well... I had rather assumed," he said, suddenly on the back foot, looking at Crowley for answers. He just opened his palms helplessly. "Ah. I see. Um... well, briefly put, the place setting to the right of mine is the seat of honour."

"And it's usually mine," Gabriel said firmly. 

Aziraphale ducked his head slightly. "Usually," he admitted. 

Crowley could feel the anger radiating off the purple-eyed fairy to his right. Aziraphale could, too; it had quickly chased away his foodie enthusiasm and set him on-edge. "It's a very nice chair. Best seat in the house," Crowley commented airily, blatantly turning his back on Gabriel. Someone needed to try knocking him down to size for once. "It's got a good view."

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up immediately. It took Crowley a moment before it clicked; he'd just turned to look directly at him. "Of the room!" he said quickly, gripping the chair arm as his cheeks heated up. "I wasn't - I didn't mean you. I didn't. Not that you're - I mean, you're - handso - uh - pre - "

"Ahem. Yes, I get the message, dear," he said, coughing and taking a dainty sip from his wine glass to hide his blush. Gabriel rolled his eyes at them both. "Oh! The food's arriving. Thank Heavens."

Crowley was just as relieved to be able to steer the subject away from his blunder. Honestly, he _wished_ he had that sort of confidence. Walking in off the street, taking the seat of honour and proceeding to flirt boldly with the head-of-state? It would certainly get people talking. What Crowley had actually just done was stumble into the realm, blindly sit wherever, and publicly make a fool of himself. Oh well. It didn't stop him from trying to undermine Gabriel. He kept a firm foothold in conversation with Aziraphale right from the get-go, even when some other courtier tried to butt in. He found the best way to do that was to get Aziraphale talking about food, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't warm his heart to see the way his face lit up once he did. Warmth and appreciation weren't part of Crowley's day-to-day routine but, if he was in the right mood, Aziraphale had both in droves. 

"Do try the shrimp. Oh - oh, and the salmon! It goes excellently with soft cheese," he said enthusiastically, dragging the various dishes over to within reaching distance. Crowley obligingly took a small piece of each. He wasn't one for eating, usually, but he saw no harm in making an exception. "There's also some trout lurking somewhere on this table, I believe..."

"Looks like you've got every type of fish under the sun," he said, looking down the long table laden with a thousand colours and flavours. "The whole hall will be stinking for weeks."

"A little magic goes a long way, dear," he said smartly, picking up one of the forks by his plate. "Tuck in, dear boy. I wouldn't want to keep you waiting."

"Uh. Right," he said, looking down at the cutlery he'd been given. His eyes flicked over the selection a few times, and up at Aziraphale, who was too busy savouring his food to notice the silent cry for help. He scowled. "Why does there have to be six of everything...?"

On a whim, he picked up the fork nearest the plate - an odd two-pronged thing - and was just about to spear a chunk of fish when someone cleared their throat obnoxiously beside him. With a huff, Crowley looked over at Gabriel. "You aren't about to use that fork for the tuna, are you?" he said patronisingly, sharing a sneer with the dark-skinned courtier beside him. 

"Why not?" he said, closing his hand into a tight fist around the fork. 

"It's not correct," he replied, gesturing with his knife. "Try another."

With a huff, he put down that fork, and reached for another. "No," Gabriel interrupted before he'd had a chance to touch it. With a twitch, he moved over to a different one. "Wrong again."

"Bugger this. I don't know why I'm listening to you," he said, snatching a fork at random and finally taking a bite of his meal. Once it became clear that he wasn't playing their little game anymore, Gabriel just tutted and turned away again. Crowley glared at the back of his head. He gripped the fork in his hand, wondering if it would be the _incorrect_ fork to use on a snotfaced git. He lifted his hand, the prongs hovering high over Gabriel's arm... but thought better of it. 

A half-stifled giggle drew his attention. He looked over in surprise, finding Aziraphale with his fingertips pressed over his lips, trying to hide his helpless smile. He'd seen Crowley's near-stabbing attempt, apparently. Crowley arched a brow.

"Huh... you're full of surprises, aren't you?" he said, leaning back across to speak to him better. "Didn't think that'd be your sense of humour."

He finally composed himself, shooting a glance over Crowley's shoulder. "I shouldn't tell you this," he said, dropping his voice low, drawing him in even closer. "But I've often thought of throwing a cup of wine in his face before now, too. He can be terribly arrogant."

"You can just say he's a prick, you know, I won't judge," he said bluntly, and possibly a little too loud. Gabriel turned to glare back at him.

Aziraphale couldn't help himself. Another unbidden laugh spilt over his lips, drawing even more attention. "Stop it, Crowley, really," he said weakly, shaking his head. He began gathering another forkful of salmon. "It's unseemly."

"What, laughing? Laughing's unseemly?" he echoed, openly mocking the idea. He scoffed, falling back into an informal slouch in his chair, to the disdain of the watching courtiers. Gabriel made a comment to Uriel, who passed it along to Michael, who passed it along in turn... "You must be fun at parties."

He preened. "Well, I do throw some excellent masquerades," he said proudly, missing the joke slightly. "I shall have to invite you to the next one."

"What, with this lot?" he said, gesturing broadly to the table. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Not my thing."

Uriel gasped. She was summarily ignored, but Crowley guessed he'd just made an enormous faux pas. Aziraphale only deflated a little. "Pity," he said. "I'll still send the invite, though. You never know. You may change your mind."

"Doubt it," he insisted. 

Away from the dining hall, in a modest home nestled on the fringes of the roots of the Blossom Palace, Deidre Young had been talking to the neighbours. This was rarely a good thing. It usually led to gossip, rumours, and all manner of probably-truthful stories about what her son had gotten up to while no one was looking. Today, though, things were distinctly different. She hurried into the house, quickly dropping the armfuls of food from the market, and closed a vice grip around her husband's shoulder.

"Adam can't go to the palace today," she said urgently, in a low voice. 

Mr Young frowned. "What? Why not?" he said, turning to look at his wife. Adam, who'd been just about to walk into the room, stopped dead just out of view of the doorframe. He hated when grown-ups talked behind his back... 

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, though she was looking the wrong way. "There's been rumours," she said, leaning closer. "They're saying that this afternoon, the Queen brought a stranger into the city. An Unseelie one."

Adam held his breath to stop himself from taking a gasp. An Unseelie fairy! He'd never seen one in the flesh before, but he knew the stories. Their realms were cold and grey, with strange weather called things like _snow_ and _storms_. They weren’t so fond of humans, either. Aziraphale had always said that humanity was a very interesting species, who didn't deserve most of the nasty things that befell them. Adam had always been interested in humans. He'd never seen one of those, either, and it was hard to find a decent book about them. 

Mr Young hummed, clearly troubled. "That's odd. But he's no fool, is he, our leader? He's never led us wrong before, Deidre," he said, settling back into the wicker chair with his worries already going back to sleep. "Adam's never come to harm in all the years he's worked there. I'm sure the palace will be perfectly safe."

"They're saying it was the Dullahan," she said, crossing her arms. Adam's jaw dropped. 

He froze. "That - That can't be. That's impossible," said Mr Young. He looked her in the eye, and found nothing there but worry. "He doesn't associate with fairy courts."

"Well he does now," she replied sharply. "And Adam isn't setting foot in that palace until he's gone."

Just as his father began to agree, Adam slunk away, toward the back garden. No _way_ was he missing out on his chance to see the Dullahan in real life, rather than in all those picture books from the library. There were plenty of drawings of him: an enormous, burly figure with his half-decayed head held in the crook of his arm, astride a red-eyed horse with fire wreathing around its hooves. He wondered why he was here, as he jumped onto their garden wall. A small yip from behind stole his attention back.

"Dog!" he whispered sternly. "Shut up, or you'll give me away."

The Cu Sidhe, colloquially known as a faerie hound, looked dolefully up at its master. Adam softened immediately. "Already, hop up, but keep quiet," he said, patting the low wall beside him. Suppressing a happy bark, Dog followed him over the wall. 

The sun was just beginning to flirt with the horizon, and Adam knew that dinner would be ending soon, if it hadn't already. He'd worked in the palace for years; he knew the routine. He scurried up the narrow thoroughfare between two large roots, slipping into the small service door hidden there. The kitchen staff were already cleaning up, with the scents of lemon dish soap and leftovers permeating the air, along with the weary banter that always reared its head near the end of the working day. 

"Adam!" Petronius called, halting him in his tracks as he attempted to sneak by unnoticed. "How many times do I have to tell you? No animals in the kitchen!"

"Sorry chef!" he said, breaking into a half-jog toward the far door. "I'll get him out. Come on, Dog!"

"And don't you dare bring him back this way after I've mopped the floor," he said, knowing he was wasting his breath. The door slammed shut behind him, and he planted his hands on his hips with an exasperated sigh. "What is the matter with that boy?"

"He and his friends are the closest thing the Queen has to any children of his own. It's probably gone to his head," one of his co-workers pitched in helpfully. 

"Then thank the stars that Adam Young wasn't really born to a Queen, or we would be in trouble," Petronius scoffed, picking up a dishcloth and getting back to scrubbing plates. 

Aziraphale's bedroom was not a modest affair. It lay at the heart of the tree, and much of the floor taken up with a vast expanse bed, piled high with velvet pillows. The walls were dominated by either art or bookshelves. His favourite feature, however, was the knothole in the wall, which had been refashioned into a balcony which overlooked the sprawling city below. He often liked to leave the glass doors open to listen to the sounds of his people, or even go out and watch them traverse the main thoroughfare running from the palace doors all the way to the distant city gate. It was comforting to the city, too, to see their Queen watching over them in the most literal sense. 

There was a frantic knock on the door. Aziraphale looked up in surprise from his vanity table. No one ever bothered him after dinner was over... either someone had decided to flout good manners, or there was a real emergency. With an exasperated huff, and a longing look at the book and pyjamas he'd already laid out on his bed, he went to answer the door. 

"Hello Aziraphale," Adam said cheerily as Dog scampered between Aziraphale's legs and into the room without invitation. "Can we come in?"

He huffed, turning to scowl at the little hound which had already jumped onto his bed. "Seems as if you already have," he said, beckoning him inside. "I ought to have known it was you. Will you get this beast of yours _off my pillows?_ I'll never get the hair out of the velvet!"

Adam laughed and gave a short whistle. "Dog! Here boy, off the bed," he said, and the hound reluctantly agreed. Even he knew better than to get the Queen in a mood (although sometimes he was willing to risk it). 

"Now, is there any special reason for coming to bother me so late in the day?" he asked pointedly, sitting back down at his vanity. "I thought you were on garden duty anyway."

"I'm s'posed to be," he said with a shrug. "Mum didn't want me to come in today, though."

"Oh?" he said curiously, dragging a comb through his hair, looking in the mirror. 

"She's heard people talking in the streets, I think. Apparently the Dullahan's supposed to be in here somewhere," he said, making Aziraphale freeze in place. He perked up, recognising the idiosyncrasy. "He is! It's true, isn't it?"

He spun around on his chair. "Now Adam, don't get too excitable," he warned, though it was clear that even he had no idea where he was going with that instruction. "He's not an animal to be gawked at."

"Is he scary?" Adam asked, a twinkle in his eye as he ignored him completely. "Like in the books?"

"He's... well... no, not really," he said hesitantly. He plucked thoughtlessly at the teeth of his comb, recalling the sharp lines of the Dullahan's face. "He's not at all like I was expecting."

"Oh," he said, slumping down slightly in disappointment. "Does he at least carry his head around with him?"

"Yes, but it's firmly attached to his neck I'm afraid," he replied. Adam let out another sound of indignation. 

"What about the Cóiste Bodhar? Did he have that?" he pressed, envisioning the famous black funeral coach, from which no one ever returned. 

"No, just the one horse."

"With red eyes?" he said hopefully. 

"I can't recall," he said sheepishly. 

"What can you remember about him then?" he cried, sitting on the edge of the bed with a huff. "He doesn't sound anything like the legends."

"And a jolly good job, too! Be careful what you wish for, dear boy," he said reproachfully, pouting at him. "He's actually rather nice, once you get talking to him. His manners do leave something to be desired, but he has a certain - ah, undeniable charm, let's say."

Adam frowned at him. He shared a glance with Dog. "You've never talked about anyone like that before," he said slowly, squinting at his face. Was he... blushing?

"I don't often have guests," he said defensively, quickly turning back to face the mirror. "It is a shame he'll be gone by morning. He did make such lovely dinner conversation."

Adam hummed thoughtfully. He watched Aziraphale for a moment, who was looking from side to side to check his appearance in the mirror. He'd always been fussy about the way he looked. Adam jumped to his feet, having already decided what he needed to do before he went home to face his mother's wrath. "I should prob'ly go," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'll get in trouble again with Petronius if I take Dog back through the kitchens after he's done cleaning."

"I think you'll get in trouble regardless," he replied knowingly, shooting him a look in the mirror. Adam wasn't blind to the amusement curling his lip into a smile, though; it was true, getting special treatment from the Queen had probably gone to his head a bit. "Off you pop, then. I'll see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning, yes?"

He agreed, and ran back out the door with Dog hard on his heels. Despite what he said, he didn't intend going anywhere near the kitchens, at least not until the sun had set, he imagined. He had too much to do. Since first coming to the palace, Adam had fulfilled many roles: stable hand, waiter, dish-washer, gardener, general troublemaker... his favourite role of all, though, was _spy_. Aziraphale never called him that, of course; that would be admitting it. No, Aziraphale preferred to think of Adam and his friends as his 'helpers'. They'd tell him what the courtiers and palace staff were saying when they thought the Queen wasn't around, and in return, they ran amuck as they pleased in every room of the palace. Privately, Adam suspected they'd have been allowed to do that anyway. Aziraphale was a softie, after all.

Adam heard voices coming from the other direction, and shadows cast around the corner ahead of them. With a whisper to Dog, he ducked behind a statue, wedging himself between it and the wall. He knew every hiding place there was to know in these halls.

"... what do you think his plans are?" asked the familiar voice of Uriel, one of the more prominent politicians.

Her companion, Michael, scoffed. "The Queen rarely plans for anything," he said derisively. Behind the statue, Adam gritted his teeth. "Didn't you see his face in the throne room? He had no idea who he'd just captured."

"But he must be planning something by now," she said. "The Dullahan is a powerful thrall. We could expand our borders to twice the size, with his help."

"If the Queen can stop himself giggling over him for five minutes, perhaps," Michael said dryly, and the rest of the conversation began to fade into obscurity as they passed by the statue. "Gabriel was none too happy to find an outsider in his seat at dinner."

Uriel halted Michael for a moment, just on the edge of Adam's range of hearing. The boy shifted slightly in his hiding spot, straining his ears. "You don't think the Queen is bored of him, do you?"

"I should hope not. Gabriel's been his right hand for millennia," he said sternly. "If you ask me, he ought to give in and take him as a consort, too."

"The Queen doesn't seem interested in marriage, Michael," Uriel reminded him. "He never has been. Gabriel has been trying to court him for centuries and gotten nowhere."

"Then we're doomed," he retorted sharply. "If Aziraphale dies without an heir, he'll take the whole queendom with him. He'd be a fool not to take a husband eventually... which he may be, in all honesty." 

They began walking again, and Adam waited until they had disappeared before crawling back out into the hall. He glared in their general direction. He'd been feeding conversations like that back to Aziraphale so often that he'd been asked to stop repeating them. Everyone had become hyper-aware of the glaring lack of a husband in the palace, and therefore the lack of any more Queens to keep the realm alive, if anything were to happen to Aziraphale. Nothing has gone wrong for millennia... but who's to say it wouldn't? Whatever the case, Adam thought it was stupid. What gave them the right to plan someone else's whole life for them? He wouldn’t let that happen, if it were him. If he had the power, he’d just make it all go away. 

Brushing off the gossip, he looked down at the hound by his feet. "Okay, Dog, use that nose. Find the Dullahan," he said. "Unseelie fairies probably smell different from us. Go on."

Obligingly, Dog put his nose to the floor, walking up and down the corridor a few times, snuffling all the way. Adam watched closely. Within seconds, Dog's head shot up, and he pointed with his nose down the hall, his tail wagging wildly.

"Good boy!" Adam said, beckoning him onward as he ran in that direction. "Come on, keep going. Where next?"

Crowley did his best to mind his own business. Well, apart from seeing how many rules of etiquette he could get the Queen to break over dinner, but that was just for fun. Mischief was in his blood. He just couldn’t resist. He counted around five rules broken, judging by the number of gasps from the surrounding snobs. It was a good laugh. He lay back on the bed he'd been provided, in a set of silk pyjamas he'd found in the wardrobe because he expected they'd be there, with his hands tucked under his head. 

A noise caught his attention. It was a small sound, scuffling along by the door, accompanied by a small whisper. He sat up. A shadow flickered under the door, of someone or something just beyond...

He stood up carefully, slinking over to the door. His footfalls were eerily silent on the floor, like a serpent winding its way through the grass. He turned the doorknob, and pressed his slitted yellow eye to the gap in the door. 

"What?" he said, his eyes landing on the small terrier outside. It had one ear sticking up, and a scruffy black-and-white coat. It looked up at him, tilting its head with an inquisitive whine. Crowley opened the door a little more, uncertain. "Oh. Who do you belong to...?"

He crouched down, sticking out his hand for the dog to sniff. Its cold nose prodded his hand for a moment before snorting and leaping back with a bark. "Charming," Crowley said dryly, pulling a face at the dog snot on his hand. He shook it off, and looked up and down the hall hoping someone would come and claim the animal. His prayers were swiftly answered. 

"Dog? Where are you?" Adam called, using his best 'worried child' voice. He even put a little tremor in there, just for effect. He turned and saw the thin man folded up on the floor beside the hound, and gave a cry of relief. "There you are!"

He ran up, grasping Dog's collar and pulling him back. "I'm guessing he's yours," drawled the Dullahan. He was obviously not from the Seelie Court; no one inside the palace ever wore black, for a start. 

"Yeah, he is," he said, his eyes lingering on Crowley for a few beats too long. 

"Something on my face?" he asked dryly. 

"No," he said, unabashed, to his surprise. "You're the Dullahan, aren't you?"

He let out a short laugh, standing back to his full height. "You’re very direct. But, since you mention it, I am," he said, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe. "Who told you so?"

"The Queen."

"Ah. Bit of a chatterbox, is he?" he said, tilting his head.

Adam pulled a face, and shrugged. "Sometimes. If he likes someone," he said, watching his face closely for a response. Crowley fidgeted slightly, as if rolling the idea around in his head before deciding to ignore it. 

"Since you're here," he said. "You seem like you've got your eyes peeled. Don't suppose you could tell me a few things about the court around here, could you?"

Adam grinned. "I could tell you _anything,_ " he said.


	3. Until Next Time

Adam _had_ gotten in trouble for going to the palace that night without telling his parents first, but it was worth it in the end. How many other kids in town could say they'd spoken to the Dullahan? It was bragging rights galore. 

"You seem to know a lot about the Queen. What's he like?" Crowley had asked first, still stood in the doorway to his temporary bedroom.

Adam thought for a moment. "He's clever. Like, really clever," he said. Crowley winced; that didn't bode well. Devious fae were the worst kind. "But he's soft. Trusts everyone."

"Is he now?" he replied with interest, mulling over that thought. If that were true, then Aziraphale knowing Crowley's true name might not be such a disaster after all. Maybe he was telling the truth, when he said he wouldn't misuse it. "All right, tell me about Gabriel. What's his deal?"

"Ugh," Adam said, pulling a face. "He's a snob. He pretends like he's Aziraphale's best friend, but all he really wants is to be king. It's never gonna happen, though, cuz even if Aziraphale married him, he'd never make him king. That'd be stupid."

Crowley hummed as if he understood. In truth, he knew no better than the boy whether all that was true, but court politics had never been his concern. "Bit of a prick, then," he surmised. Adam laughed.

"A bit, yeah."

Once the sun had hauled itself back over the horizon the next morning, Aziraphale knocked politely on Crowley's door. There was a muffled grunt from inside. It was followed by a shuffling, a thump, several profanities, and reluctant footsteps before he answered the door.

"Wot?" he said, sticking his head out into the hall.

Aziraphale was surprised to find himself staring into his sunglasses once again. He quickly shook it off. "Um - good morning," he said sheepishly, trying not to notice his handsomely disheveled state. "Would you rather I came back later...?"

Crowley's eyes dipped, taking in Aziraphale's neat outfit from his tartan bow-tie to his well-polished shoes. "Depends what you want," he said, guarded. 

"I was just wondering if you'd like to go for a stroll," he said, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. "The gardens are beautiful. I - It might be silly of me, to think you'd like such things - "

"No, no," he said quickly. "Gardens are good. I like gardens."

Aziraphale lit up. "Oh!" he said, smiling. "I'll just wait here for you then, shall I?"

Crowley snapped his fingers, re-clothing himself and styling his hair in an instant. "Done," he said, closing the door behind him. "Lead the way."

Aziraphale gave a happy wiggle, and beckoned him to follow him down the hall. The palace seemed like a rabbit warren of hallways, marked out as different from one another only by the wood grain patterns curled uniquely around the walls. Crowley couldn't keep track of where they'd been. They eventually emerged out into the sunshine, walking along one broad tree root and down onto the lawn nestled behind the palace. It was hemmed in by tall shrubs with broad, waxy leaves and pastel pink flowers, with a fountain at the far end of the lawn. People milled around along the paths, lounging on the ground, soaking in the heat or the coolness of the shade cast by the fruit-bearing trees at the fringes of the space. 

The ground was surprisingly springy as he stepped down onto it. He looked down in surprise, realising that it wasn't grass at all. "Is this moss?" he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes. Moss lawns are far better for the land," Aziraphale replied happily, breathing in the verdant, summery scents on the breeze. "Don't you like it?"

"Call me a traditionalist, but I like having grass under my feet," he said, then added under his breath: "Moss doesn't listen to threats."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Uh," he replied, clearing his throat and taking a few strides to catch up to him. The other visitors to the garden were already starting to take notice of them. "I was just saying that grass is easier to... look after."

"Oh! Are you a botanist?" he asked, surprising him by taking hold of the crook of his arm while they walked, seemingly blind to the curious stares from the fairies around the lawns. Crowley nodded, locking his jaw tightly, not trusting himself to speak. "My, I never would have guessed."

"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?" he said indignantly as they passed under a pear tree. 

The Queen grew slightly flustered. "Well, you are an omen of death, dear," he said, a smidge judgementally. "Life isn't in your job description."

He huffed. "I can keep things alive if I want," he said. He shot him a side-glance. Aziraphale simply rolled his eyes, and looked up at the looming shadow of the decorative fountain at the end of this section of the gardens. It was a tall stone figure, with broad feathery wings spread out from his back, pouring an endless stream of water from a pitcher. A loitering teenager quickly scurried away in alarm as they approached it. 

Crowley smirked. "Looks a bit like you," he said, looking at the serene features on the fountain which had been worn by age and covered over slightly with algae. 

"It is me," he said dryly, taking his hand away from Crowley's elbow.

He turned to him in surprise, mouth hanging open. "What, you mean - ?" he said, jabbing a thumb up at the statue. He nodded. "Why'd you have a statue of yourself out here? Didn't peg you for the vain type."

"I'm not!" he cried innocently (he was). "It was just... well, the beginnings of a tradition, I suppose. This lawn is terribly barren, and I had planned that my children will have statues of their own too, when they succeed me."

"You've got kids?" he said, remembering Adam immediately. He certainly carried himself like he owned the place - or rather, like his dad owned the place.

"No!" he cried, cheeks suddenly flushed red. He glanced around nervously. "Or, well, not yet. I haven't found the right person to - erm - how can I put this politely..? To sire them for me, I suppose you'd say."

"Ah," Crowley said, nodding very seriously and looking back up at the fountain like it had suddenly become very interesting. This was clearly an embarrassing topic for him. He appraised the sculpture carefully, waiting for Aziraphale to compose himself again. He looked into the rippling water, crystal clear and glittering in the sun... He jumped, taking a step back as his eyes landed on a dark shape in the pool.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said, taking a cautious step backward as well, unsure what he'd seen.

He leaned over, looking back into the water, and sighed in relief. "Sorry. I just saw that other statue in the pool. Thought the bugger was real," he said, gesturing into the water. Aziraphale peered over, noticing what he meant; a carving of a snake was just poking its nose above the surface, as if curious about the figure above him. "Why is that even there? There are no wild snakes this side of the ocean." 

Aziraphale chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Funny story," he said. "In the beginning - in the very early days, when the palace there was barely even a sapling - there was a wise fairy living in the city called Agnes Nutter."

"Sounds like a campfire tale," he commented, sitting down on the edge of the fountain to calm his nerves. 

"It is, rather. She spoke mostly in riddles, but she had the most fantastic gift," he said, a gleam in his eyes as he began to embrace the theatrics of the story. "She was clairvoyant."

He scoffed. Adam was right, he really did trust people too easily. "No one knows the future, Aziraphale," he said, running his fingertips idly through the cool water. 

"Ye of little faith," he said with a pout. "She most certainly could. Her prophecies came true each and every time, even if they did sometimes take a bit of puzzling out."

"Nice and vague, were they?" he said sceptically.

"Nice and _accurate_ , actually," he retorted. "I visited her only once, and with hindsight, I really should have gone more often... I was far too wrapped up in expanding my court in those days. Oh, how foolish. It's a terrible shame. Though, I did remember to write them all down, in this lovely green notebook I had at the time..."

Crowley sighed. "Your point?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," he said, quickly getting back on track. He cleared his throat. "She gave me many prophecies for my future. The one behind our friend in the fountain here has caused me a good deal of anxiety over the years, I admit: _O Great Blossom Tree, beware the serpent among thy branches. Thy flowers he shall take, softly as the changing seasons._ "

Crowley's heart stuttered. He swallowed thickly, trying not to let his impassive mask slip. The serpent... _It means me,_ he thought uneasily. His shapeshifting ability was his best-kept secret of all and, unless this Agnes character had made a lucky guess... She'd foreseen him coming here. To his chagrin, he had to admit that maybe, just maybe, some people could catch a tiny glimpse the future. 

But if that were true, why warn Aziraphale about him? He had no way of knowing that the Dullahan was also a serpent, so the prophecy hadn't really warned him about anything. Besides, if that spindly noodle of a thing in the fountain was his mental image of what the snake would look like, he was sorely mistaken. Crowley was around thirty feet long, with coils thick enough to swallow a person whole and still have room for seconds. _Hang on, what did he say about me stealing flowers? What the bloody hell would I want with flowers...?_

"It's a fascinating book," Aziraphale continued, deaf to Crowley's internal confusion, staring down thoughtfully at the serpent in the water. "I study it when I have the time. A few of those prophecies are still a mystery to me..."

"Probably a good thing," he said, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "The future's best left alone."

"Says the man whose job is to forewarn people of their imminent demise," he said haughtily. "What about the Great Plan, dear? It's not often we get a glimpse into the designs of fate."

"Great Plan? What do you want to know about that for?" he said distastefully. "Bollocks to it. Who says we have to follow a plan anyway?"

"A higher power," he replied easily, folding his arms behind his back. 

"Like who?"

"Best not to speculate," he said, in the manner of someone who had spent many sleepless nights convincing himself of that. He shot him a small glance from the corner of his eye. "It's ineffable."

"What, the higher power is ineffable?" he echoed, frowning at him. Aziraphale nodded. "Is that just what you say when you don't know the answer?"

He scoffed, caught red-handed, and quickly turned away from the fountain to start back toward the palace. "Do you always ask so many questions?" he said, looking over his shoulder as he began to follow.

"More or less."

"You ought to be careful. Asking too many questions can get people into trouble, you know," he said. "Curiosity killed the cat, as they say."

"Is that a threat?" he said in amusement. Aziraphale spluttered in protest.

"Most certainly not!" he said, pausing beside a large broad-leaf shrub and absent-mindedly plucking a large fruit from the branches. He cracked it open as he talked, and began making for the palace steps again. "I do endeavour to answer questions when I can. Care for a nibble?"

Crowley looked down at the fruit being offered to him. It had a hard shell, and soft white flesh inside. "Uh... what is it?" he said, taking a cautious sniff of the air. 

"Haven't the foggiest. It's very tasty, though," he said happily, picking at the flesh with his free hand. Crowley scoffed in disbelief, rolling his eyes. 

"You're going to get yourself killed doing that," he said. He gave him a confused look, cheeks stuffed full. "Eating strange fruits off any old tree you find."

"It's my garden," he said with a pout, swallowing and turning his nose up haughtily. He popped another piece of fruit into his mouth. "Well if you're not interested, all the more for me."

He hummed, settling into silence as he kept eating on their steady walk back toward the vast tree. He had to admit, it was a nice place. The whole realm was suspended in constant warmth, like the same day played over and over a thousand times. There never needed to be rain, or storms, or change. The Queen kept the realm alive, frozen in the heat of summer. Crowley looked around warily, catching the fairies sharply looking away from him as he turned his head. The only sound in the garden was the chirping of birds, and the laughter of a nearby gaggle of children. 

"D'you think they know who I - ?" he began, only to get cut off by something crashing into his side. He grunted, stumbling sideways into Aziraphale, who dropped his fruit and grasped at his dark jacket in an attempt to keep his balance.

Crowley looked down, his face instinctively half-curled in anger. When a wide-eyed child stared back up at him, like a rabbit under the claws of a hawk, his snarl slipped. The little girl gasped, scrambling backwards a few paces, bumping into her friend, who immediately turned and bolted in the other direction. "S - Sorry!" she cried, looking fearfully between the two men. She recognised Aziraphale immediately, and she'd heard the whispers about his new Unseelie companion. "It - it was an accident!"

Crowley opened his mouth, about to try smoothing things over before the Queen threw some sort of royal hissy fit. He was swiftly cut off as Aziraphale pushed him to one side. "Good Lord, that was quite the bump," he said. "Are you all right?"

"I didn't mean to!" she said, cowering back. Her friend had bailed on her the instant he saw who they'd hit. 

"Oh no no, don't cry, my dear," he said hurriedly, kneeling down to her level when he saw the tears building in her eyes. He shared a helpless glance with Crowley, who was still playing a game of mental catch-up. "It was an innocent mistake."

She sniffled, trembling. "Yeah," she said, staring at the ground. Crowley shot an admiring side-glance at Aziraphale; not such a diva after all, then. Even he knew that royalty weren't supposed to kneel down to anyone else's level, yet here he was, comforting a child who'd been careless enough to run right into him. 

"No harm done," Crowley added, shoving his hands into his pockets nonchalantly. The girl looked at him for a long moment, as if surprised he spoke in a language she understood, before nodding slowly. 

Aziraphale suddenly let out an excitable gasp. "My! What's that behind your ear?" he said, with a dumb grin. He brushed her hair back and, with a flick of his wrist, pulled a coin out of 'thin air'. Crowley arched a brow. Did he just..? "A silver coin!"

He gasped theatrically, waving the coin under her nose until she began to break down into a fit of giggles. A flicker of warmth flared into life in Crowley's black heart, bringing a soft smile to his lips. Status or no status, Adam had been telling the truth. Aziraphale was soft.

"Here you go. It's only fair that you have it," Aziraphale said, pressing the coin into her palm and closing her hand around it gently. "Do be careful where you're running in future, though, my dear. You could get hurt."

She nodded shyly, clutching the coin to her chest. "I will. Th - Thank you, your majesty!" she said, and scurried away as quickly as she'd arrived. 

Aziraphale got to his feet, tugging his coat straight again, and continuing on his way with only a short mournful glance at the fruit he'd dropped. It would make a meal for the wildlife, at least. Crowley fell into step beside him. "That coin was in your pocket," he said in a low voice.

"No, it was in her ear," he said, looking stubbornly ahead.

"Your pocket."

"It was... close to her ear," he conceded, folding his hands behind his back. 

"Never anywhere near her ear," he said. He tilted his head with a frown. "Why bother with the sleight of hand? You can do proper magic."

He rolled his shoulders. "Yes, but it's not as fun," he said self-indulgently, allowing himself a little grin. 

"Fun?" he said in disbelief. 

"Yes!" he said, unabashed. He walked with a slight spring in his step that Crowley hadn't noticed before, and a carefree glint in his eye. He could have told him that this little hobby was _demeaning_ or _silly_ , especially for a Queen, but... something told him that he already knew that. That was the beauty of it. That was the whole point, in fact. So, Crowley said nothing, only half-heartedly rolling his eyes and following him back up the palace steps. 

"I'm telling you, it's true!" Adam cried, sat on the fringes of the town square. He wasn't supposed to be out, but Dog had 'run away', and he'd had no choice but to run after him. The offending hound was currently lying by his feet, chewing on a bone he'd pilfered from the butcher. 

"Then how come he's here in the first place?" Pepper said, carving a chunk out of the apple in her hand with a penknife. "The Dullahan doesn't just visit for no reason."

He shrugged. "I heard someone saying that Aziraphale has his name. His proper name," he said. 

"That would be unprecedented," Wensley said. He pushed his glasses further up his nose. "And very powerful. Aziraphale could make himself an empress with power like that."

Brian shook his head. "Nah. He wouldn't like it," he said, lying back on the warm cobblestones. "He prob'ly just wants someone to talk to. Someone that isn't us."

"Well that's one way to do it," Pepper said dryly. "If _I_ were a Queen, I'd - "

"Dismantle the rigid, toxic court structure and encourage free debate in elected assembly?" Wensley interrupted, echoing the general gist of many of Pepper's previous political rants. She glared at him, and said nothing, stabbing at her apple. Aziraphale often joked that she had appointed herself his chief advisor, because she made no secret of her views even in front of him. 

"Anyway," Adam cut in, rolling his eyes, "I was about to tell you something. Aziraphale really likes him. He was going all gooey when he talked about having dinner with him."

Brian sat up abruptly. "What, _like_ likes him?"

"No way!" Pepper said, gawking at Adam.

"Not yet!" he said. "But it's like when Wensley started hanging around the boy from the travelling market."

Wensley flushed red, and looked away. "It was just one week," he mumbled. 

"Right. If they'd hung around much longer you'd have been a goner," he said. "That's what Aziraphale was like."

"That's not fair. He's got no proper friends apart from us, has he?" Pepper said indignantly. "He’s probably just excited. Not everything revolves around romance, Adam."

"Just you wait. Ask him about the Dullahan next time you see him," he said. 

"Like now?" Brian said, pointing over Adam's shoulder. 

He twisted around, hearing the clatter of hooves on cobbles. People were already surreptitiously fleeing from the sight of the proud black mare, and the redhead leading it into the plaza. Aziraphale walked beside him, and that was the other reason why people serendipitously discovered they had a pressing reason to be on the other side of the square. High status was a powerful repellent; no one wanted to be the fool who disrespected the Queen in public, even by mistake. For once, Aziraphale didn't even seem to notice. He was too taken up with the way that Crowley's hair burned with a multiplicity of reds and oranges as it caught the sunlight. 

Adam immediately ran over to them, leaving Dog and the Them scrambling to their feet to catch up. "Aziraphale!" he shouted, skidding to a halt in front of them. 

"Adam," he said in surprise. It took only another beat of silence before he planted his hands on his hips. "What did we say about etiquette, young man?"

He huffed, rolling his eyes as his friends arrived behind him in a gaggle. "Always use titles in public, even if they're stupid and pointless because I've known you for ages and you don't actually care," he said mutinously. Crowley snorted in amusement, and quickly hid it behind a cough when Aziraphale shot him a withering glance. 

"Good enough, I suppose. At least you do remember," he sighed. Turning to Crowley, he began gesturing to each child in turn. "Crowley, I'd like to introduce Adam Young, and his friends, Pippin Galadriel Moonchild - "

 _"Pepper,"_ she corrected sharply. 

" - Jeremy Wensleydale Junior, and Brian Macleod," he said. There was an indignant yip by his foot. He sighed. "Ah yes, and Dog. How could I forget?"

He nodded, giving no indication that he and Adam had already met. "Name’s Crowley," he said, inclining his head slightly in greeting. "Shall we be getting on...?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Do excuse us, children," he said, gently touching Adam's shoulder as they passed them by, heading through the square. Adam huffed, and gave chase.

"Where are you going?" he asked Crowley, falling into step beside him. The Them trailed behind uneasily, not quite sharing Adam's dauntless attitude in the face of the headless horseman himself, no matter how amusingly oxymoronic that last part may seem. 

"Home," he said, shooting him a small glance. 

"Why? Don't you like it here?" he said bluntly.

"Adam!" Aziraphale said scoldingly.

Crowley's lip twisted. "There's nothing wrong with it, but I don't hang around in Seelie courts," he said. "Nor any court, for that matter. I'm better off on my own."

"Sounds lonely to me," he replied, wrinkling his nose. Aziraphale had to agree... but then again, perhaps living alone wouldn’t be as lonely as spending your days surrounded by the vultures in his court. "Can I come with you to the border?"

"All right," Crowley said, at the same time Aziraphale exclaimed: 

"Most certainly not!"

They looked at each other awkwardly, while a grin crept onto Adam's face in the background. "Why not?" Crowley said defensively. 

"Because he's been trying to find the gateway to the human world ever since he could walk. I'm not having him running off in the dead of night because I've gone and taken him straight to it!" he said. 

"Just take him halfway there, then," he said stubbornly. "I'll find the rest of the way out after that. Can't be that hard."

"Says the man who was lost when he found me."

"Oi, that was once, and only because I wasn't looking where I was going," he said, jabbing a finger in his direction. "And I had a bad map."

"Excuses excuses," Aziraphale said, shaking his head. He looked over at Adam again, whose puppydog eyes would even put Dog to shame, and crumbled. "Oh, fine. But only halfway to the door between realms, and that's it!"

Adam cheered, beckoning the Them closer. They all clustered around Aziraphale, keeping a safe distance from Crowley until they passed under the city gate. As they progressed into the surrounding forest, they began to relax. Pepper was the first to dare coming closer, but only to tackle Adam to the ground for making a joke about her name. None of Aziraphale's protests could break up the play-fight that followed, though it didn't last long. The scent of pollen and chirping of songbirds filled the air louder than ever, and the children began to run ahead, playing a game of tag up and down the path while Aziraphale and Crowley talked. They both kept one eye on their young charges. Eventually, Crowley seemed to change in their minds from "Fearsome Dullahan of Legend" to "Tag Battle Tactic". Wensley hid behind his legs more than once to stop Brian from catching him. 

They soon came to an open meadow, flush with daisies and buttercups among the swaying grasses. "Here we are," Aziraphale said, pausing in the middle of the open field, where the breeze toyed with his coat. Crowley paused in surprise. "Halfway to leaving the queendom, like we agreed."

"Oh," he said, caught off-guard. He'd been so taken with the gentle summertime insouciance of their walk together that he'd forgotten it would ever end. He stared at the shadowy tree-line which marked the border of the meadow, just a few hundred metres away. "Right."

"It's been a pleasure to have you visit, my dear," he said. Crowley swallowed hard, nodding, unaccustomed to the sincerity he saw in those cornflower blue eyes. "You're welcome back, anytime you like - and I do still intend to invite you to that masquerade, you know. I haven't forgotten."

He gave a short laugh. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind," he said. He couldn’t accept. He knew by the flutter in his chest that returning to this court was not an option; if he came back, his heart may never leave. It was now or never. "Anyway, I'd best be off."

"Yes. Of course," he said, fiddling with his hands for a moment. Hesitantly, he held one out. "Travel safely, won't you? Look after yourself."

"And you," he said, shaking his hand. He gave a short nod to the Them. "Especially with that lot to keep under control."

Aziraphale shot a fond glance at the children, laughing as they chased one another through the field with Dog bouncing over the tall grass behind them. "They're the least of my worries," he said with a bittersweet smile. Crowley's chest twisted in sympathy when he recalled the oppressive atmosphere the Queen had waiting at home. 

He put his foot in the stirrup, and swung himself into the saddle. He called over to the children with a parting wave. They shouted out their goodbyes, each telling him to come back soon. He chuckled, and looked down at Aziraphale one last time, his smile softly dying as he wondered how often he would think of him after he was gone. He was a remarkable case; he hadn't used Crowley's true name against him and, for that alone, he felt that he owed him more than just a handful of conversations and a woodland stroll. They met eyes through his dark sunglasses, and Aziraphale's serene expression slipped when he saw the remorse hiding underneath. 

"Oh," he said quietly. "I won't see you again, will I?" 

Crowley shook his head. He daren't attempt to apologise, for fear his voice would betray him. 

Aziraphale tried to smile. "Well, in that case... I wish you all the very best," he said, taking a respectful step backwards. "Mind how you go." 

"Likewise," he said, proffering one last remorseful smile before tugging on the reins of his horse, urging her to the edge of the meadow. 

He felt Aziraphale's gaze on his back, even as the sun dappled through the canopy onto his horse's flanks. The shade was a welcome reprieve, lifting the weight of the heat from the back of his neck, though it couldn't shift the guilt. He ruffled his short hair, wondering if he should have picked his words more carefully. Aziraphale had been good to him and what did he get in return? A terse nod and some stupid one-liner! 

"Likewise," he muttered, mocking himself as his horse plodded along the forest path. "Likewise! Idiot. Didn't even thank him for dinner..."

He spurred his horse into a trot, trying to outrun his thoughts, since he couldn't wrestle them into submission. The beauty of the woods, still heavy with blossom, fruit and singing birds, blurred with the speed. When the mare began to huff and pant, he tugged on the reigns, slowing down until she came to a halt. He sighed, and slipped out of the saddle. He murmured a soft apology into her cheek. She wasn't used to keeping up such a pace in the height of summer, especially not after having walked so far already. He tied the reigns to a nearby branch, and patted her shoulder.

"There's got to be water around here somewhere. Sit tight," he said, before stepping off the path.

He could already hear the bubbling of a creek somewhere nearby. The noise wriggled to the forefront of his mind, overcoming the birdsong and rustling branches until he finally came to a halt by a spring of water. It was cool and clear, without even a patch of algae over the crystal-clear pool. Muttering to himself about the bizarre Elysian quality of everything in this realm (though he didn't bother with the flowery language), he knelt by the banks and began to fill a skin full of water. He'd bring his horse over in a moment. 

A branch cracked. His eyes snapped up, scanning the tableau of tree trunks across the spring... A gruff voice carried on the breeze, and Crowley lurched backward, diving behind a broad evergreen, out of sight. 

"Bloody Seelie realms," someone croaked. "It's always too bright. Hurts my eyes."

"We won't be here long," said someone else. Crowley heard the squelch of their boots in the mud beside the spring. He held his breath. "Only until we find something worth taking. The travelling market always passes this way."

"The quicker we find them, the better. Do you have the map?" he replied. There was a splash, and the squeal of alarmed pond-life as they were scattered from the reeds. "Hastur?"

Crowley's heart stopped; he knew that name. Tentatively, he shifted his position, peering around the tree trunk... 

His eyes widened. The clear water was now choked with algae, crowded with the creeping parasitic water-flora native to Unseelie realms. A dark-skinned fae crouched beside it, his hands submerged in the now-slimy pond, the chameleon on his head mirroring his leer. Dukes of the Unseelie Queendom; they were never good news. Another one, this one with a frog on his head, was scowling at a white map clearly made by Seelie hands. Stolen, probably. Crowley had crossed paths with Hastur once, on the site of a burning human home, and he’d seen the vicious glint in his eye that didn’t just come from the firelight. He was enough to make even the Dullahan’s stomach turn. 

Hastur growled, crumpling the map back into his pocket. "There's a meadow, that way," he said, pointing into the trees. "The city isn't much further. They'd have to stop there."

"Then let's gather the others," Ligur replied, shaking the water from his hands. Crowley saw the glint of a dagger on his belt. "The caravans won't raid themselves."

They turned away, kicking aside the undergrowth and disappearing again. Now he listened closely, he could hear the calls of other trespassers echoing through the woods, out of sight. He clutched the water skin to his chest. Slumping back against the tree and releasing a long breath, he thanked good fortune they hadn’t seen him. They were here to pillage, and that made every lone traveller fair game. He needed to get out, fast. At least the city was well-fortified; they’d need an army to breach those walls, and this was just some gang of thugs. Getting to his feet, he idly realised that they must be heading toward the meadow where he and Aziraphale had parted ways... Wait. 

His heart seized in sudden terror. "Aziraphale!" he gasped, breaking into a sprint toward the path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really have a schedule in mind for posting just yet... I might just post whenever I need a boost, to be honest (I’ll estimate at every 5-7 days, ish)
> 
> Thank you to all the kind and wonderful commenters out there, too! You’re making a huge difference to me, cooped up in the house, and every lovely comment gives me more motivation to write ahead and get this story finished! You’re amazing and you are absolutely key to my writing <3


	4. Bedside Reading

Aziraphale took his time walking back. He let the Them play a while longer in the meadow, before he decided it was high time they started back along the path. Hyped up by their game, his low mood escaped their notice. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he almost forgot to lift his feet over the tree roots in the path. Part of him wondered whether he'd done something to offend Crowley... Why didn't he want to come back? Was it because of his true name? Perhaps this visit had felt like somewhat of a lucky escape. He sighed. Best not to speculate, he told himself; he was the Dullahan, after all. Permanence wasn't in his nature. He would never have stayed, much less for an old Queen he barely even knew. 

Dog halted, letting the children race past him. Aziraphale walked past in a daze. No one noticed when the little hound turned back, snuffling at the ground, with a low growl building in his throat. Something was coming. Its scent was sharp, ugly, and almost sweet with putrefaction. He stared at the twisting forest path, its meandering route concealing the approaching source of the reek. His hackles rose. Only the leaves stirred, but the breeze had fallen still. 

"Dog? What's the matter?" Adam asked, having noticed that his pet had fallen behind. He looked into the forest, his nose blind to the warning scent the hound had picked up. He turned, seeing Aziraphale and the others arrive back in the clearing. "Dog's seen something."

"A squirrel, perhaps," Aziraphale said, glancing around without really paying much attention. 

"Um..." Wensley piped up, eyes wide as he pointed down the road the way they came. "I don't think that's a squirrel!"

Time seemed to slow down. A monstrous horse-like creature rounded the corner, foam spilling from its toothy maw as its hooves sprayed the earth from the trail. Aziraphale grabbed Adam by the shirt, jerking him out of the path of that thing barely an instant before a hoof lashed out into the space where he'd been standing. Its rider leered, leaning over in his saddle until his shadow fell across them. More followed him. Foot soldiers poured into the clearing, daggers glittering on their belts and greed sparking in their eyes. Dog puffed out his chest, barking wildly. 

"Look what we found," crowed the stranger on horseback, circling the clearing. There were gaps in the circle they'd formed around the clearing, yes, but they weren't wide enough to hope for an escape. "A posh fairy, and all his spawn..."

Aziraphale gathered the children as close as he could, twisting to and fro, trying in vain to keep all of the strangers in his line of sight. "There is no need to be unreasonable," he said, voice straining slightly with nerves as he tried to raise it. "If you would just state your purpose..."

Ligur, who stalked the clearing with a mace in hand, looked up at Hastur, sharing a slimy grin with him. "What we want? What we want is a good haul," he said, his husky voice making Aziraphale nauseous with fear. "You and your young would fetch a pretty penny at market."

Aziraphale straightened up, raising his chin in defiance even as his heart jumped erratically in his chest. "Then I must command you to leave. We - We do not buy and sell people as commodities in this realm," he said, swallowing his nerves. He cursed his stutter. He tightened his grip on Adam's shoulder. "Begone with you, and I shall say no more about it."

"Command! He's commanding us, Hastur," Ligur leered, sharing a perversely amused glance with Hastur. His face turned sour and threatening again, fixing his orange gaze back onto the huddle of Seelie fae. "Think you're better than us, do you?"

"Well..." he said, drawing out the word while every fibre of his being strained to stop him from saying _yes, actually._ Luckily, Pepper was on-hand to surreptitiously stamp on his toe. He winced. "I assure you that isn't the case, gentlemen."

"Then what gives you the right?" said Hastur, tugging sharply on the reigns of his horse. The beast was unruly, possibly even ill, and refused to stand completely still. Aziraphale eyed it nervously, and even Dog began to cower beneath its crazed stare. 

"I am the Queen of this realm," he replied, as composed as he could manage. There was tense pause. The foot soldiers began to share restless glances. Some of them rested their palms on their daggers. 

"Queen Aziraphale himself?" Hastur said, sitting up and eyeing him with new interest. The children huddled closer, their skin crawling. "Famously unmarried, no heirs... Your people would pay buckets for your life. They'd not have a choice." 

"And if they didn't..." Ligur added, his tongue swiping hungrily over his lips. "All the more for us."

Aziraphale let out a choked, fearful noise. It must have been obvious, because a sadistic cackle quickly spread across the line of fae encircling them. He began to cower... He felt the children look up at him, helpless. He was just as unarmed, just as outnumbered, and just as afraid, but that wasn't the point. He was their Queen. If he failed them now, he could never forgive himself. 

He forced himself to stand straight again. "Stay close," he whispered to the Them. "I won't let them touch you."

It was the only promise he could make. He was surrounded, and one of them could easily be caught in the crossfire of a battle. If he went peacefully, he may still be able to bargain for them to go free. They'd need someone to pass on the ransom message, wouldn't they? He looked around, a tremor running down his hands as he thought of all the foul things they might subject him to before he was negotiated back home, or... or the alternative. He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth, trying to muster the words for a dignified surrender. Then, he hesitated. A distant, rhythmic noise reached his ears, growing quickly stronger and stronger until even Hastur began to look around for its source. Ligur stood at the mouth of the clearing, squinting down the path at the approaching shape.

"What the - ?"

Hooves slammed into his chest, mowing him down into the dirt. He didn't even have time to scream. Red eyes flashed in the sunlight. "It's the Dullahan!" someone screamed. It might have been Wensleydale. 

The effect was immediate. The intruders panicked, scattering in all directions, desperate to escape the infamous black horse and - more importantly - its rider. Crowley bared his teeth, driving his horse forward, running them out. Hastur bellowed furiously, swiping at the deserters who passed him. Something whistled through the air, striking him on the jaw with enough force to throw him off his mount. The horse shrieked, bolting. It trampled Ligur a second time in its escape, dashing out his brains in the dirt. There was another almighty _crack_ as another thug caught a lash from Crowley's whip. He needn't have bothered. The thugs had been broken and scattered, with only their wails of terror echoing through the forest left behind. They had all fled. 

Or... nearly all. Hastur lay flat in the bracken, shivering, pain gripping his face so intensely that all other sensation felt numb. He couldn't blink. He stared out from between the leaves, watching a rivulet of blood flow from the mess which had once been Ligur. They'd set out that day for a simple raid. It was never supposed to end this way. Hoof-beats still shook the ground as the Dullahan rode in tight, protective circles around the Queen and those overgrown tadpoles he called children. The Dullahan... He stared helplessly at Ligur, hardly able to draw breath with his chest pressed hard against the ground. It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't _fair._

Crowley scanned the forest for any stragglers, whip held tight in his hand. It was a trademark of his myth, another small detail that the bards actually got right: a whip, fashioned from a long string of spinal vertebrae. Aziraphale stared up at him in awe, dazed, unable to process much more besides Crowley's proud, upright posture and watchful expression as he circled them, blocking off attack from any direction. Aziraphale shuddered, that fierce protectiveness sending an unfamiliar ripple of heat through his body. He felt safe. Very, very safe indeed. 

"Crowley," he breathed, his voice wavering for a wholly different reason this time. Finally, Crowley stopped his horse and looked down at him, still coming down from the adrenaline rush, his breathing laboured. "You came back."

"Well. Yeah. Obviously," he said, clearing his throat slightly and fidgeting in the saddle. The commotion had faded, and the sounds of the forest began to return. "I saw them coming. Couldn't just walk away."

"How noble," he said admiringly, staring almost shamelessly up at him while Crowley squirmed, unaccustomed to praise. 

Pepper grimaced, and learn over to nudge Adam. "All right. I see what you mean now," she said, rolling her eyes at their dumbstruck leader. He nodded smugly. 

"Told you so."

Crowley slipped down out of the saddle, taking the drawstring out of his water skin, and holding it under his horse's nose. "M'not noble," he said, stubbornly avoiding his gaze. A light pink overtook his cheeks. The horse dipped its nose into the bag, drinking eagerly from the water. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. 

"Well, in any case, I'm very grateful. We all are," he said, folding his hands in front of him and looking fondly down at the children. "I should offer you a medal."

He grimaced. "God, don't do that," he said derisively. "What would I do with a medal?"

"Give it to me?" Adam suggested cheekily. Crowley chuckled, looking back up at the Queen for a moment. The undergrowth rustled. A snarling figure lurched from cover an instant later. A blade glinted in the sun, thrusting toward Aziraphale’s back. 

"Aziraphale, look out!" Crowley shouted, barrelling him aside. Hastur’s blade stabbed deep into Crowley's gut, where Aziraphale had stood a bare instant ago. Agony painted his vision with dark spots, blotting out the world beyond that hateful, pockmarked face. He choked, gripping Hastur's wrist. He could only spit out a single response through the lump of pain in his throat: 

_"Bastard."_

Hastur wrenched his hand back, and Crowley's knees gave out. He hit the ground with a strangled cry, pain lancing through the soft, bloody mess of his abdomen. Someone shouted his name. His vision blurred, his head swimming as a choking, cloying sensation spread along his veins. _Poisoned blade,_ he realised dumbly. A blinding flash of light derailed his train of thought, leaving the tingling sensation of Seelie magic on his skin for a sweet, lingering moment before he slumped into the dust, unconscious. 

Gabriel sat in the drawing room, waiting. He'd never liked this room, and yet, it was one of Aziraphale's favourites. It felt crowded by the stacks of books he'd taken down from the library and never put back, and the constant roar of the fireplace grated on him after a while. Aziraphale claimed it was cosy. He thought it was cluttered. Whatever it was, he had an appointment with him in here at noon, and he still wasn't here. The Queen had insisted on escorting the Dullahan out of the realm, and had assured him he'd be back in plenty of time. He checked his timepiece, irritated. Late! Well, that gave Gabriel plenty of leverage to play the guilt card, at least. 

The door slammed open, making him jump. "You need to see this," Michael said urgently, hanging into the room, itching to run back the way he came.

"Most people knock, Michael," he said, smoothing down his lapels. "I could have been halfway through a meeting."

"I knew you weren't. The Queen just returned, and he isn't alone."

"Again?" he said in irritation. What poor stray had he gone and dragged in this time...?

"Come with me, they're in the infirmary," he said, dashing from the room again. With a deep sigh, Gabriel got to his feet and gave chase.

He burst into the infirmary without ceremony, shouldering past the nurses who tried to block his path. Aziraphale was at the far end of the vast infirmary hall, his back turned. Hearing the commotion behind him, he spun around in surprise, away from the nurses crowding the bed he'd been watching. "Gabriel!" he said, jogging over. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard that you'd come to the infirmary. I was worried for your health," he replied with a tight smile, folding his hands in front of him. Even Michael had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Oh, that's very kind, but... I'm afraid it isn't me in need of medical attention," he said, casting his eyes sadly back to the cluster of nurses. For a moment, they parted, and Gabriel caught sight of red hair on the pillow and dark clothes, heavy with blood. 

"The Dullahan?" Michael said, eyes widening. Aziraphale nodded, hanging his head slightly. "What happened?"

"I... well, after Crowley and I parted ways, I was ambushed, you see, by a group of rather brutish Unseelie fae," he explained sheepishly, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat, avoiding their eyes by glancing back toward the bed. "But he'd seen them coming in the other direction, and he followed them back."

"And? What then?" Gabriel pressed, snapping his attention back from the commotion. He didn't like the dreamy look he was starting to get in his eyes. 

"Hm? Oh, yes. There was a struggle, but he fought them off. It was... rather heroic," he said, fighting an undignified grin as the memory of the rescue came back to him. Gabriel's arched brow brought him sharply back down to earth again, and he dropped the smile. "Ahem. Yes, anyway, um... there was a straggler left behind, one we hadn't seen, and - and he struck when my back was turned, but Crowley got in the way. He saved my life."

Gabriel took a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. The Dullahan had done the whole realm a great service, one that couldn't be ignored or belittled, at least not without being accused of treason. That was fine. Appointments could be rescheduled, great deeds could be overshadowed, and people could be forgotten. "It's a miracle," he said, determined not to be undermined. He could still use this to his advantage. "And maybe even a sign."

"A sign?" he echoed, baffled and immediately disconcerted. A nurse barged past him with a half-hearted apology, before dashing back with a fresh armful of bandages. 

Gabriel spread his arms wide, as if gesturing to the whole queendom. "If, Heaven forbid, we had lost you today..." he said, trailing off meaningfully. Aziraphale seemed distracted, glancing over his shoulder in worry. "Everything would be lost. We have no other eligible candidates to take your throne."

He hummed vaguely, barely paying attention. "Well I don't know what you want me to do about that now," he said in an sour undertone. 

"You could take a husband. Make an heir," he said, fixing him with an intense, demanding look. 

A flurry of emotions raced over his face: fear, shock, offence, anger, guilt... "Now is hardly the time to be discussing that sort of thing!" he blurted out, scandalised. He glanced haplessly between the nurses and Gabriel a few times before he squeezed his eyes shut, forcibly rearranging his thoughts. He opened them again a moment later, more composed. "Gabriel, for the last time, I'm not ready. Please."

He cursed himself for begging. He was a Queen, why should he have to say _please_ to his own courtiers? Even as the thought occurred to him, he still cringed at the bitter downturn on Gabriel's lips. "Very well, your majesty," he said, almost mocking him with the title. "I'll see you this evening."

"Possibly," he said quietly, turning away without even looking him in the eye. 

He hovered a few feet from the infirmary bed. Nurses were still hurrying to and fro around it, trying to stem the bleeding. Crowley's shirt hung open, half-dried rivulets of blood painting stripes over his skin. Disinfectant hung heavy in the air. Aziraphale watched the laboured rise and fall of his chest, pacing erratically around the room but never straying far. He did his best not to get in the way of the healers; they could give Crowley his best chance, after all. 

A desperate gasp tore the silence. Aziraphale looked up sharply; Crowley's back arched off the mattress at a painful angle, his wound gushing blood again. He cried out in half-conscious agony. The nurses quickly pushed him back down, pressing more gauze over the stab wound.

"What's happening? Is he all right?" Aziraphale cried, unable to stay silent any longer. 

The head nurse disentangled herself from the throng, throwing one last string of instructions over her shoulder. "How quickly did he pass out after the stabbing?" she asked, bypassing formalities altogether. 

"Almost immediately," he said. She grimaced. "Oh - Anathema, dear, please... Can't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"The blade was poisoned. Snake's venom, most likely," she said pensively, wiping her bloody hands on her apron. Crowley let out another protracted groan. "I'm surprised he's held out this long. Most people are dead within minutes."

Aziraphale's breath caught, recalling the snake prophecy, a sharp bolt of fear running through him as he wondered if it was connected. He had always lived in fear of all things serpentine... He shook himself quickly. Now wasn't the time to be pondering fate. "Surely that's a good thing. Perhaps he might still survive," he said optimistically. 

Anathema pursed her lips. "I'll do what I can," she said. 

Eventually, all fell silent. The lanterns hanging from the roots in the ceiling were the only things left to illuminate the cavernous hall of the infirmary. It was late, and Aziraphale still hadn't left. He stayed like a pale sentinel by Crowley's bedside, hoping to be there when he awoke. Dinner had been brought to him when evening drew in, and he'd made sure to give specific orders to the duty-guard that Gabriel was to be turned away at the door. For that first night, he sat in silence by the bedside, thinking. 

If Crowley died... if his last act had been to save a man he hardly knew... Aziraphale paled, and turned away from that train of thought. He already knew he'd misjudged the Dullahan, but he had no idea how deep his misconceptions ran. He liked gardens, and his horses, and he was good with the children. Hardly the ferocious death-omen he was made out to be! In fact, now he was sitting so close, Crowley looked... well, peaceful. His chest rose and fell in a steady, sleeping rhythm, straining against the bandages on his midriff only slightly. Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, feeling a yawn creeping up on him. He looked around cautiously, seeing no one, before resting his head on the mattress beside the sleeping Dullahan. 

"Just five minutes," he promised himself, his eyes fluttering shut as he let the rhythm of Crowley's breathing lull him to sleep. 

Anathema poked him awake the next morning. Not one for pomp and ceremony, she tipped him out of his chair and ordered him out of the infirmary while she changed Crowley's bandages. As far as Aziraphale could see, he hadn't stirred yet. Knowing better than to argue with her, he straightened his waistcoat and hurried back up into the palace proper with only a small huff. It was probably best that she had been the one to find him there, asleep by Crowley's bedside. It was highly undignified, and best kept quiet. 

Back in the halls, he knew he was at risk of landing in the ever-changing sands of politics once again. He still felt groggy, not ready for that yet. He took a brisk pace through the halls, but soon heard voices approaching from the other way. It sounded like Uriel and Sandalphon. His breath caught, knowing that if they saw him out and about again, then Gabriel would come looking for him not long after. He pressed a hand against the wall, willing for a shortcut to appear. His tree-shaped self gladly obliged. The wall split along the grain, shifting to a accommodate him as he squeezed through the gap, which quickly sealed shut behind him just as the other two fairies rounded the corner ahead. 

Needless to say, Pepper was somewhat surprised when the Queen stumbled out of the broom cupboard, scattering mops and buckets as he went. He muttered and grumbled, trying to stuff the cleaning supplies back into the cupboard. She cleared her throat. He went very still, his gaze slowly sliding over to the young girl watching him lose a fight with a mop.

She planted a hand on her hip. "What are you doing, Aziraphale?"

"Just - erm - having a wander..." he said with a skittish smile, giving on final push and closing the door on the broom cupboard. He straightened up again, folding his hands behind his back with his best acting-natural smile. 

"In a cleaning cupboard?" she said, unimpressed. She could see him beginning to flounder already, and sighed. "You didn't do that thing again where you walk through the wall to avoid talking to people, did you?"

He looked down at his feet for a moment. "Well..." he said. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

Rolling her eyes, she set aside the washing basket she'd been carrying, and held out her hand to him. "Come on, then. Where are we going? I'll make sure no one talks to you," she said matter-of-factly.

Unable to suppress an affectionate smile, he took her hand. "My study," he said, letting her lead the way through the corridors. They did pass a few courtiers on the way, but Pepper always began chattering very loudly as they went by, making very sure they wouldn't be able to get a word in edgeways, even in passing. 

They finally reached his study, at long last, near the very top of the tree. It was an airy, open space, stacked high with books like most of Aziraphale's favourite places. A broad white marble desk dominated the space, with a high-backed chair behind it. Whoever was sat on the other side was relegated to a simpler wooden frame seat. Aziraphale settled behind his desk with a relieved sigh, pulling over the documents he needed to look at today.

"Paperwork," he said under his breath, like the vilest curse. He gave Pepper an apologetic smile. "Thank you for the help, dear, but I'm afraid you'll get rather bored if you stay here. You'd better fetch that basket you left behind, hm?"

She glanced at the door, before turning a hard stare back onto the Queen. "Since no one's listening now... Is Crowley all right?" she said, arms tightly crossed. "S'just that we all saw what happened."

"Crowley is... alive," he said hesitantly, his eyes tracing over the moulded ceiling rather than looking directly at her. She was a perceptive girl, and he knew it was a fruitless effort to put her mind at rest with empty promises. "Anathema is doing her best to keep it that way."

"She'd better," she said, going for the door. "I like Crowley. He's all right, for an Unseelie fairy."

Aziraphale smiled weakly. "He is, rather, isn't he?"

That night, Aziraphale attended dinner before visiting Crowley. Gabriel was back in the right-hand seat, to his great satisfaction, and was talking at length about appointing royal bodyguards. Aziraphale deferred the decision until later. He valued his privacy and, Unseelie threat or not, he didn't want some unfamiliar fae trailing him around every hour of the day. Sometime soon, he'd have to engage in some sort of diplomatic fencing match with Prince Beelzebub's realm too, and Lord knows he could do without that... Why couldn't they all just leave each other alone? What was so difficult about that?

He fled from the dining hall at the earliest opportunity, and arrived at the infirmary door a short while later with a book in his arms and a flask of cocoa. He eased open the door, finding the sprawling room dark and barren, apart from the orange halo of light cast at the very end. He smiled, easing the door shut behind him. Anathema must have guessed he'd come to visit. She always did have such a way with predicting the future; she was a descendant of Agnes Nutter, after all. 

His shadow flickered across Crowley's bed, long and gangly, as he came to sit beside him. The notes on his bedside table were brief and direct: _Patient unresponsive but stable. Prospects for recovery not unrealistic._ Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, looking again at his relaxed expression. 

"You did give me a terrible fright, you know. I thought you were about to snuff it, for a moment there," he said softly. His voice echoed strangely in the empty hall. "That just won't do."

He paused, as if expecting that he might sit up and start bantering with him like they had before. Instead, Crowley slumbered on, his lips slightly parted to draw in the air. He seemed so isolated, in this big dark hall, so silent you could hear a pin drop. Aziraphale reached out, his hand hovering for a moment over Crowley's, wondering if it would be wrong of him to take it without him being awake... Deciding that yes, it probably was, he drew back with a sigh. 

"Why did you come back, you silly man?" he whispered, throat tightening. He got only steady breathing in response. "Look at you, the Dullahan himself... If I didn't know any better, I'd say you do have a heart after all. Whoever would have thought, hm?"

Smiling sadly, he held up the flask as if to show him. His eyelids remained firmly shut. "I don't know much about medicine, but I know that if I'm a bit under the weather, this always makes me feel right as rain again. I shall be happy to share," he said, taking off the lid and pouring a cup of piping hot cocoa, as if he could simply bribe him back to good health. He pushed it gently toward him. Crowley's nose twitched slightly, but otherwise, he didn't stir. 

"Blast. You really aren't pretending, then, you fiend," he said with a hopeless laugh. His smile wavered when he realised that he was sat in the dark, making jokes for an empty room. He was alone. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the silence as he rubbed a hand across his face. "Good heavens. I think I've gone mad, my dear. Isn't that silly?"

Crowley's chest rose and fell gently. It was enough to bring the smile back to Aziraphale's face. "Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't. It'll be our little secret," he said, patting his arm gently. "Fancy that. I don't tell anyone my secrets, you know."

He took a deep sigh, and glanced over to the cup of cocoa on the bedside table. He shot a guilty look at Crowley. "I might pinch this back, if you don't mind, dear. I'd hate for it to go cold," he said, taking a much-needed sip from the sweet drink. Crowley didn't seem bothered. Aziraphale licked his lips, then held up his book slightly. "I've brought this along, by the way. It's an old favourite of mine, of human authorship, but it's rather gripping. I thought... perhaps I might read it to you, on the off chance you might hear me. Do say something if you'd rather I didn't."

Silence. Aziraphale nodded sagely, and opened the book to the first page. "Very good," he said, and began to read aloud: "It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet..."


	5. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot BELIEVE none of you commented on what Aziraphale was reading to Crowley at the end of the last chapter. And here I was worrying it was a bit heavy-handed, as Easter eggs go! XD

Dreams had been kind to Crowley. After the initial blur of shadows and pain, everything had faded into a near-soundless hum. A vague memory of the smell of chocolate rippled in his feverish mind, accompanied by a soft voice, telling fragments of a story about an angel in a garden. It had been nice, but after a dream always comes the dawn, and he couldn't sleep forever. His eyes began to slide open ever-so-slightly, dragging him from his addled stupor. His cheek fell sideways onto a pillow. A dull ache sat on his belly, demanding to be noticed. He ignored it. Slowly, his vision began to gather itself into a single blurry image, providing him with a vague white outline...

"Angel..?" he groaned, a remnant of his dream providing the word which seemed to fit so perfectly. The figure moved. A voice tried to break through the buzzing in his ear, but it was so distant, as if his head was submerged in water. He felt the back of a hand on his forehead, and tried to lift his heavy limbs to swat it away. "N... nuh... m'fine. Geroff. Angel. Off."

Aziraphale took a step back, and shared a glance with Anathema, who had just arrived at the foot of the bed. "Good lord, I think he's delirious," he said. "He keeps calling me _angel."_

She gave a wry smile. "Or maybe he likes you," she said cheekily. 

"In that case, he must be delirious," he said with a sniff, crossing his arms. 

She rolled her eyes, and set about treating the newly awakened Dullahan. "He already took a knife for you, sire. How much more proof do you need?" she pointed out, wafting a bottle of smelling salts under Crowley's nose. He unwittingly took a breath, and immediately let out a strangled shriek of surprise, cursing and trying to wriggle away. She turned to glare at him. "Oh, don't be a wuss."

Aziraphale giggled slightly, and sat back down in a nearby chair. Crowley was a far more troublesome patient now he was awake, and he and Anathema spent several minutes cursing one another as she tried to make him sit still to change his bandages. After extensive whinging, Crowley eventually began to come to, and grasped for his sunglasses on the bedside table as soon as he was lucid enough. Anathema took the opportunity to peel back the bandages, revealing the brownish crust left around the wound. Crowley went very still.

"The bleeding's stopped. Seems your body handled the poison better than expected," she said, appraising the wound. _Perks of being a serpent,_ Crowley thought silently as she gently prodded at the surrounding flesh. He hissed in irritation. 

"Watch it."

"Stop whining, I'm a medical professional," she said. She picked up a cotton pad from the side, and coated it in a foul-smelling yellowish substance. "Rest as much as you can for two weeks, and don't enter the human world for at least three months, or you'll risk getting an infection."

"You what?" he said, making you sit up before falling back down with a groan. "Three months? Stay away for three - ? How am I supposed to get home?"

"You don't," she said, cleaning the wound with a deft swipes of the cotton pad before reaching for fresh dressings. 

"Bugger that. I'm leaving."

"Sure," she said, already wrapping clean bandages around his middle. She nodded toward the chair on the other side of the bed. "If he lets you."

"If who - ?" Crowley said, turning. He jolted in surprise, pain shooting through his middle. He cursed. Aziraphale gave a tiny wave. "Wh... When did you get here?"

"I've been here since you woke up," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "And I have to say, dear, I think it would be prudent to follow Anathema's advice."

He wrinkled his nose. "Anathema? What kind of a name is that?" he sneered, then gave a shout of pain as she tugged the bandages tighter than strictly necessary. He groaned. "Right. Lovely name. S'good name, I take it back."

"Thought so," she said, loosening them again. He sighed in relief, slumping down against the bedframe. 

"Three months isn't so long, in the grand scheme of things. I would much rather someone keep an eye on you until it's safe for you to leave," Aziraphale said, shuffling forward on his chair. Crowley let his head loll to the side, staring jadedly at him. "I'll see to it that you live very comfortably in the meantime, of course. It's the least I can do... I owe you my life."

He curled his lip. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?" he said, drawing himself up straighter in surprise. 

"Like it's a... a thing," he said, shaking his head slightly and scowling at the ceiling. "I'm the Dullahan, no one owes me their life."

"Oh. Well... that's very - " he began, but curbed the praise once he saw the look on his face. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ the compliments, but he just didn't seem to know what to do with them. Aziraphale cleared his throat, and restarted the sentence. "In any case, your actions saved the whole queendom from utter collapse. While you recover, you may have anything you wish. Within reason."

He gave a short hum of understanding. Anathema finished dressing his wound, and left to dispose of the old bandages. "Are the kids all right?" he asked quietly, as if he didn't want the noise to carry. 

He smiled. "Perfectly fine, yes," he said. He left out the _all thanks to you_ part. "They're quite fond of you already. I imagine they'll want to visit soon."

He nodded. "Yeah. And what about the last fairy? The one that...?" he said, gesturing to his wound.

"He got away, I'm afraid," he said with a sour note in his voice. "The realm is being searched, but I can't imagine he dawdled. Not after the fright I gave him."

Crowley chuckled softly, careful not to agitate his injury. "I'd have thought that a Queen is more than capable of looking after himself, you know. Why didn't you just scare them all off? Or kill them?"

He fidgeted in his seat. "Well - I've never - I've never killed anything," he mumbled, glancing down at his hands folded in his lap. "To be truthful, I don't think I could. Anyway, there were far too many of them for me to fight all at once. It was a fool's errand."

"I managed it," he said with a smug grin.

"I suppose you did," he said, with begrudging praise. There was a lull in conversation, and a niggling doubt resurfaced in his mind. "May I ask you something, Crowley?"

"Hm?"

"Who is Angel?" he said. "You kept saying that name, when you were waking up."

Crowley's brow furrowed. He wound his mind back to the feverish ramblings that spilled out of his mouth, recalling the white figure by his bed. He looked back at Aziraphale: white coat, white hair, pale skin... Ah. Right. Hm. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Aziraphale watched him apprehensively, for some reason fearing that he was about to say _my wife_. 

"I... couldn't remember your name," he lied. Aziraphale blinked, surprised as Crowley ploughed on haphazardly. "Just seemed easier. Y'know. Angel, rather than - uh - you know. Won't happen again."

"I didn't say I minded."

"Yeah, see, I was just - what?" he said, his brain grinding to an abrupt halt. 

He smiled shyly. "If it really is easier, you can call me angel all the time, if you like," he said, distracting himself by running his fingers over the cover of the book he'd brought along the night before. "As I said. You can do as you please, while you're recovering."

"Hm. All right, then, angel," he said, testing out the new nickname just for the thrill it sent up his spine. Aziraphale seemed to feel the same way. "It'll be an interesting three months."

Deidre Young read the parchment which had been nailed to the town hall. It was announcing that there had been an altercation in the queendom, and that no one should go into the wilds alone from now on, until a solution had been negotiated. She chewed her nails anxiously. Adam had recounted the Unseelie attack with great drama at the dinner table, everything from the Dullahan's rescue to the Queen's swooning. Mrs Young hoped her son had simply misinterpreted that last detail... The thought of something like the Dullahan getting his claws into their beloved Queen sent a shiver down her spine. 

_Still,_ she thought, as she carried her shopping back back toward the greengrocer. _Death-omen or not, he saved my son's life._ What was she supposed to make of that? Brian, Pepper and Wensleydale's parents were all in the same predicament. The myth of the Dullahan hung over them like a dark cloud, whispering all those stories of fire and ruin... Yet, he was here, and the queendom was still standing. They didn't even have a face to put to his name (and she had been reliably informed that he did, in fact, have a face). 

She bumped into someone as she crossed the square. The loaf of bread balanced on top of her bag fell to the ground, and she almost cursed it before a groan of pain reached her ears. She looked up sharply, supporting the man's elbow. "Oh I'm so sorry, are you all right?" she said.

"Ugh. I swear, I can't seem to go more than three steps in this realm without getting hit by something," he grumbled, grabbing the bread from the ground before he straightened up. "Here. You dropped this."

"Thank you," she said, putting it back in the bag and thanking heaven it was wrapped in paper. She glanced at him, taking in the sharp features and red hair. She didn't recognise him. "New here, are you?"

He grunted. "Could say that. I was supposed to be gone already," he said, looking around the town square. "I thought I may as well have a poke around the city if I'm stuck here for a while, though."

"Do you have a place to stay?" she asked, looking at his unkempt clothes. They were unusually dark, out of step with the fashions of the queendom, though she supposed he wore them well. They looked like they'd been left crumpled on a chair for a week, though. 

He glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the blossom tree which towered over the city. "Yeah, I got a little place sorted out," he said, with an undercurrent of humour in his voice. 

"Near the palace?" she said, tilting her head. "That's very upmarket."

"S'pose it is," he said with a hint of a smile. "The landlord's a good bloke, too. Clever."

"Right..." she said, feeling like there was a joke in here somewhere that she wasn't picking up on. "Well, I'd best be off, I'm afraid. It was nice meeting you, Mister...?"

"Crowley," he replied, giving her an airy wave as he turned to walk back the way he came. "See you around."

She waved back, though he didn't see. She was halfway to the greengrocer's before it clicked. _Crowley, as in...?_ she realised, stopping dead with her heart in her mouth. 

Hastur limped into the ring of toadstools, clutching his face. The skin had stopped bubbling when he passed out of the Seelie realm, though he doubted the sight would ever return to his eye. The frog perched on his head had lost a leg. The Blossom Queen ought to have been a soft target; he had a reputation for mercy, diplomacy and pacifism, not for burning half the face off his attackers in a rage. He passed into the Unseelie queendom with barely a whisper, cursing. It wasn't his fault the whole thing had gone down like a lead balloon. Someone else had interfered. 

The tree overlooking their citadel was markedly different from Aziraphale's. Their Queen had been in a limbo of ill health for centuries, and the pine tree had been shedding its needles until the entire surrounding area had a thick, springy coat of leaf mould. No one was worried. Prince Beelzebub was more than capable of running the show and once Lucifer finally bit the dust, the tree would recognise their royal blood, and life would go on. Hastur slinked in through the door at the base of the pine, feeling the weighty absence of Ligur by his side more than ever. An after-image of his broken body flashed behind his eyes. 

The throne room didn't have doors. If you chickened out of approaching the throne, everyone would know. If you hesitated, everyone would know. If you returned alone and wounded from a routine expedition, everyone would know. Hastur kept his eyes locked on Beelzebub as he approached the centre of the hall. He pretended to be blind to the corridor of leering faces along the way, which he was, on the left side. 

"Prince Beelzebub," he said, bowing low. 

"Hastur," they replied dispassionately. They tilted their head slowly. "What's wrong with your face?"

"A wound, my Lord," he said, standing straight again. 

"From who?" they said. 

He cleared his throat reluctantly. "Queen Aziraphale, of the Blossom Queendom," he said. The court burst into raucous, mocking laughter, cackling like a murder of crows. Beelzebub let them laugh. 

"And the rest of your expedition? Duke Ligur?" they continued eventually, looking down their nose at him. 

"Ligur is dead. The rest were deserters," he said, hanging his head slightly. Several other nobles kept snickering at him from behind, making no attempt at subtlety. 

Beelzebub rolled their neck, staring idly around the room as if immensely bored by this whole interaction. "Do you have anything to show for it?" they said. Hastur shook his head slowly. "So... you are given one simple mission, to find something worth pillaging, and you return half-blind and penniless."

"He wasn't alone, Lord. We were about to take him prisoner, I swear it, but there was a surprise attack," he said, his voice becoming tented and shrill with desperation. His neck burned with shame, hotter than the Seelie magic which had taken his eye. Beelzebub was turning away already, losing interest. "It was The Dullahan!"

Beelzebub froze. The court fell silent as they turned back, slowly, eyeing the Duke with suspicion. "He rescued the Blossom Queen? Why?"

"I don't know, but I saw it with my own eyes. He trampled Ligur, scattered my men, and struck me off my horse," he said, leaving out the part where said horse made extra certain that Ligur was dead on its way out. "I managed to wound him before the Queen drove me away."

The Prince mulled over that news. The Dullahan was a loner, never associating with any court, let alone a Seelie one. He was sometimes spotted on the fringes of a fairy realm, on his way to foretell human deaths, but he rarely ventured deep into their land. Why would he have changed his tune so suddenly? Did he serve the Blossom Queen now, or did he have his own reasons to keep him alive? Beelzebub resisted the urge to bite their nails. If Aziraphale had the Dullahan by his side, he was not to be trifled with any longer. The cracks in his armour that Beelzebub had always planned to exploit had suddenly closed up, it seemed...

"In that case, perhaps a visit to the Blossom Realm is in order," they said pensively.

Aziraphale looked up from his desk, hearing a sharp rap against the door. "Hello?" 

The door creaked open, and Crowley poked his head into the room. "Ah, this is the right place," he said, sauntering in without asking for an invitation and slinging himself down into the chair on the other side of the desk with only a small hiss of pain. "I asked Brian, and figured there was at least a fifty percent chance he'd play some sort of prank on me."

"Oh, higher than that. He must have taken pity on you, because you're wounded," he replied, flipping a page in his book. "How was your trip into the city?"

"All right. Hardly anyone looked twice at me, without my horse," he said, glancing idly around the study. "Where is she, by the way? Azrael?"

"Is that her name?" he said with a smile. Crowley nodded. "She's in the royal pasture, not far from the city. It's very secure, you have nothing to fret about. Is she your only horse?"

"No, I've got four. Azrael's the boss, though my other mare Carmine gives her a run for her money sometimes. Then there's Sable, 'course, he'd take your arm off for a half a poxy carrot. He's always hungry," he said, amusement passing over his face. "Snowy, my youngest, tends to stay out of trouble, but I can never get the dust out of his coat. Bloody mess, he is."

Aziraphale quirked a brow. "You talk about them almost like they're your children," he said. Crowley cringed. 

"Yeah, well..." he said with an awkward cough, smothering his embarrassment. "Prob'ly won't be so fond of them when I get back. They're probably unleashing Armageddon on my garden as we speak, back at home."

"Oh dear. Should we arrange for somebody to go and check on them for you? It would be no hassle, if you could just give me some directions to your home," he said, concerned for the fate of Crowley's plants. 

He shook his head. "They'll be all right. They're used to me going on long trips, and they've got plenty of grass to go at," he said firmly. The last thing he wanted was for anyone knowing where he lived. His private little pocket-realm was an untouched gem, as far as he was concerned, inaccessible unless you crossed into the human world first. It was his safe haven. Luckily, Aziraphale seemed to readily accept his reassurances. 

"Jolly good. Once you're feeling better, it would be lovely to go for a ride together. There are plenty of roads north which are very quiet this time of year," he said, gesturing vaguely to the wall-length window at his back, and the sprawl of green land beyond.

He arched a brow. "Is that a good idea?" he said sceptically. "You got attacked last time you went out alone."

"I won't be alone. You'll be there with me," he said brightly. Crowley felt a protest building in his throat, but it quickly died as he opened his mouth. He had a point. Even injured, anyone would think twice about taking him on, and that split-second hesitation would be all he needed to crack his whip. 

"Fine. Won't be taking another knife for you, though," he said, just to keep up appearances. 

"Yes, best not," he said. 

"Hm. What're you reading?" he said, craning his neck to see the book open on the desk. The pages were old, worn to a golden sepia, with a green binding. 

"I'm glad you asked. This is the book of prophecy I told you about," he said. Crowley shuffled uncomfortably, remembering the cryptic serpent prophecy as Aziraphale ran his fingers lovingly across the lines of text. "I was just cross-checking a couple of things. I believe this one just came to pass - Prophecy 307, see?"

He span the book around, pushing it toward him. "Looke to the southern path, and thy saviour shall ride; he be not spineless!" he read aloud, and arched a brow at him. "Didn't you try telling me these weren't vague?"

"Not all of them are. I figured out all the simple ones thousands of years ago," he said with a pout, taking it back. "But don't you see? You rescued me from that ambush, with a whip made from a spine. Though I dread to think where you got it, it does rather make the prophecy undeniable."

He scowled at the book, hesitant to believe it. "Fine. Even if that's true, why bother making it so bloody difficult? She could've used plain words, surely. I mean, _he be not spineless_? That's just taking the mick. She could've just meant your saviour was brave."

He fixed him with an impish stare over his reading glasses. "Well, you were rather brave, charging a whole troop of armed soldiers head-on, alone," he said. Crowley held up a finger, about to protest, when Aziraphale cut across him again. "And then pushed me to the ground to take a dagger to the belly which was meant for me."

His jaw worked open and shut, his lips forming around words which he quickly abandoned one after the other. Eventually, he dropped his hand back into his lap. "... point taken."

"Thought as much," he said smugly, leafing through a few more pages. "Though I admit, Agnes had a wicked sense of humour. I can't quite decide whether she was just having a joke at my expense sometimes, even all these years later."

"Bit late to punish her for that now," he said. "I assume she's dead."

"Funny you should ask. No one's quite sure what happened to her," he said, fiddling with the white quill sat in his inkwell. "She just vanished one day. No prior warning, no note, not a word to her family."

"The old bat probably lost it," he said, poking at his bandages through the gaps in-between the buttons of his shirt. "Or got bored with lying about her special powers and wandered off to some other queendom."

He gasped. "Have some respect. She was a very wise woman," he said with a withering look, then noticed what he was doing. "And for Heaven's sake, leave those bandages alone. You claim to be the clever one, and yet here you are, agitating a fresh wound."

He groaned, and threw up his hands in irritation. "What else am I supposed to do?"

He tutted, shaking his head. "I shall have to figure something out to keep you occupied," he said. "Or you'll unravel yourself entirely."

"Nice, that's almost poetic. If I was just a little bit more gullible you could convince me that was a real prophecy," he said, folding his hands behind his neck and leaning back in his chair. 

"Oh, you are a fiend," he said with reluctant fondness, fixing him with an amused look as he pretended to focus on his work. Crowley grinned back, revelling in the simplicity of his newfound friendship.


	6. Wooden Heart

Over the next few days, when Anathema released him, Crowley lurked around the the throne room while court was in session. He was on his best behaviour, which wasn't fantastic, but at least he hadn't started a fight (yet). That said, there had been a bit of a close call the first time Gabriel overheard Crowley saying _angel._ He'd gone quite red in the face, and plunged straight into a rant about hierarchy, personal distance and respect... which Aziraphale shortly undermined with four simple words.

"Leave him be, Gabriel," he said impatiently, sick of having to split his attention between this year's harvest quota and the one-sided argument going on by his left. 

He'd gone even redder then, though the Queen didn't seem to notice. Crowley's face lit up into a self-satisfied smile, making Gabriel's fist curl. He'd walked away before temptation got the better of him. For the rest of that morning, subjects came and went from the room, airing their grievances and concerns to Aziraphale's sympathetic ear. He didn't always offer a solution, and frankly Crowley could have laughed at some of the clichés he spouted, but even the most surly of visitors always seemed to leave the court feeling a little lighter than before. All this royal smoothing-over of things didn't always leave Aziraphale much time for idle chatter, though. 

Bored, Crowley began to notice things. He noted that the room was a perfect dome shape, rising high above their heads with an inverted lily chandelier illuminating the hall from the pinnacle of the ceiling. The floor, which at first glance looked like an enormous, polished expanse of reddish stone, was in fact just the wooden walls bleeding into a floor, with the wood grain marbled in a variety of rich dark hues. His eyes traced the lines in the floor, finding them all flowing in one direction, up the sharp lines of the carven steps until the floor itself rose up, forming the imposing silhouette of the throne. The back of the seat fanned out dramatically into a halo of young, spindly branches, coloured with the same white blossoms which adorned the vast branches outside. A similar pedestal sat near the arm, with a box on top. Everything in this room was part of the tree, he realised. This was, quite literally, the seat of Aziraphale's power. 

At long last, the disgruntled yeoman who'd been bothering Aziraphale turned around and left the court. "Woo-wee... He was a talker, wasn't he?" Crowley commented, quickly jumping into conversation before anyone could beat him to it. He rested his elbow against one of the sturdier branches jutting out from the throne, bending down slightly toward the Queen. 

Scandalised gasps rang out across the entire court. Crowley frowned, wondering what they'd seen, only to find that all eyes had turned to him. "Er..." he said, throwing a tiny side-glance in Aziraphale's direction. "What did I just do?"

Aziraphale twisted around, equally as befuddled until he spotted the problem. "Ah. I see," he said, smiling awkwardly, ducking his head. He reached up, and gently pushed Crowley's elbow off the branch. "You're not supposed to touch the throne, dear."

He spread his arms with a frown. "Why not?" he said. Someone in the crowd scoffed, and he jabbed his finger in their general direction. "Oi, I heard that."

"You know, for most people, _because I said so_ is a good enough reason," he commented chidingly. Crowley crossed his arms, stubbornly refusing to retract his question. "Simply put, it, um... it's my heart. Not for touching. I shall forgive you on this occasion, of course. It's not as if you tried sitting in it, after all."

The blood in Crowley's cheeks suddenly ran hot. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement, accepting that it was probably a little rude to go around poking people in the heart. Still, the stares from the crowd of nobles made his skin prickle. They were judging him, whispering, sniping at him... _Let's give them something to talk about, then,_ he thought viciously. 

"So, hypothetically," he said, wrinkling his nose and thrusting his hands into his pockets to stop himself from subconsciously reaching out to the throne again. "What if I did sit in your throne?"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, tapping idly on the broad armrests as he mulled over how best to word it. "Um, well, you see, there's - a bit of a curse upon it. Any unwelcome persons who sit in this throne will be - ahem - in a bit of a pickle," he said, smoothing out his waistcoat to distract himself from the distasteful topic. "They would descend into madness rather quickly."

Crowley pulled an appreciative face, absorbing that information as well as the lingering sour atmosphere from the nobility. "Right. No messing around, then," he said. 

"Not much, no," he replied with a shy smile. He glanced around the room, noting the disgruntled mood and inactivity. With a small cough, he got to his feet, tugging his bow tie straight. "I believe we're finished here. Good afternoon, everyone."

He'd only taken two steps down from the throne's platform before the doors flew open again. Aziraphale froze, his expression tightening with annoyance for a moment before he forced it back to a welcoming smile. Crowley could still see the barbs underneath, though. "Yes?" he said, looking at the breathless messenger who had just arrived. 

"Your majesty," he panted, collapsing down onto one knee, more to rest his muscles than to show respect. "I bring news."

"Yes, I'd guessed. What is it?" he said, flexing his fingers, itching to run for the door and hide away in the library. "Court session just ended. Do be quick."

He nodded, still gulping desperately at the air. "The - The Pine Realm sent word. Prince Beelzebub is on their way for a diplomatic visit."

Aziraphale's eyes stretched wide, as if he was staring down a crossbow at the end of his nose. "Already? Without asking?" he said, his heart flapping wildly against his ribcage. He'd expected this, of course, but there were protocols for this sort of thing. There were usually letters exchanged and arrangements made far in advance of any talks going ahead. "Good lord. How long do we have?"

"They will arrive in two days' time, sire," he said, finally able to lift his head despite the millstone of fatigue hanging around it. 

He hurried down the throne steps. "Then we'd better get a wiggle on! I need everyone standing by for orders, at the drop of a hat!" he said, hurrying toward the main doors. There was a general murmur of excitement and anticipation. 

Crowley made to follow him out the door, only to find a broad hand clamped around his shoulder before he even passed under the arch. "You would be better off staying out of the way for the time being, Mister Crowley," Michael said, with a dead-eyed stare. "The Queen must remain focused until Prince Beelzebub arrives."

"I'd have thought he'd be the one to tell me that, if it was a problem," he said, curling his lip. Aziraphale had already vanished around a corner. 

"He has more important things to worry about than explaining to his new pet why he can't play right now," he said. Their altercation was mostly ignored as the rest of the court filtered out of the room, buzzing with the news of the incoming visitors. 

Crowley swatted Michael's arm down from his shoulder. "You ought to watch what you're saying. Don't forget who you’re talking to," he said. "I'm nobody's pet."

"Then why are you still here? Awfully convenient, don't you think, that your wound keeps you from straying too far from the palace," he said. Crowley's face twitched, and Michael's lip twisted into a sneer. "You're a curiosity. He'll get bored of you, eventually."

"He's put up with you lot for long enough. I reckon I've got at least a few thousand years before that happens," he retorted, narrowing his eyes. "Not that I'll be hanging around to find out."

"Of course you won't. Outsiders like you will never belong," he said, pivoting on his heel and striding out of the throne room with his head held high. 

The doors swung shut, and the echo of the sound all that was left to keep Crowley company. The lily chandelier dimmed slightly, sensing that court session was over. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The truth in Michael's words sat heavy and cold in his chest as he sank down onto the steps leading up to the throne. He didn't doubt that Aziraphale liked him, but at the end of the day, he'd never be more than a passing interest. He was a relief from the court. Now he couldn't afford the luxury of escapism, Crowley would no doubt find himself out in the cold. He glanced over his shoulder, to the looming flare of branches that made up the bulk of the throne, of Aziraphale's heart, reaching in every direction at once yet still finding nothing to hold on to. 

Dinner that night was cancelled. It didn't bother Crowley; he hadn't been attending court meals, since Anathema insisted upon a particular specialised diet of her own concoction. It consisted of many plants he didn't recognise (and neither did anyone else) which were more bitter than Crowley was about eating them, but it was better than sitting next to Gabriel at dinner, so he took it. The strange thing about dinner being cancelled is that it meant Aziraphale's favourite time of day was not going ahead. Crowley was less surprised when he didn't come to visit the infirmary afterwards. He still waited, though. Just in case.

He looked up sharply when the door opened. The footsteps that followed did not match Aziraphale's careful, metronomic gait, though, and Crowley quickly stamped out the flicker of disappointment in his chest. A familiar face soon emerged from the shadows of the hall.

"Brian?" Crowley said, frowning. "What are you doing here? It's late, you should be asleep."

"So should you," he said, dropping a small bag onto the mattress beside him. "Here, that's for you."

He picked up the bag, peering inside curiously. "Sweets?"

Brian glanced over his shoulder, scanning the darkness quickly before he turned back and whispered: "We've all had to eat those rubbish leaves Anathema gives people. Sweets get the bad taste off your tongue."

He couldn't help but smile. "Thanks," he said, putting them under his pillow where the nurse wouldn't find them. "Where'd you find them?"

"Nicked 'em from the kitchen," he said, hopping up to sit on the edge of the bed. Crowley hummed, impressed. "No one's there tonight. They all got let off early when dinner got cancelled. Wensleydale can't believe it."

"Hm. That's politics for you, always getting in the way of the important stuff," he said, examining his nails.

"Yeah. Aziraphale hates it. He's sorry, by the way," he said. Crowley gave him a quizzical look. "That he didn't come to visit."

"S'fine," he said, wrinkling his nose to downplay the whole thing. "I knew he wouldn't."

"Is that why you're still awake at nearly midnight?" he said knowingly.

"Oi, don't get smart," he said, giving him a light shove on the arm. Brian laughed. Shaking his head, Crowley jerked his head toward the door. "Seriously, though. You'd best be off, or you'll get us both in trouble."

The light was on all night in Aziraphale's study. Gabriel came and went a few times, and he had to admit, he was useful. He had a faction of courtiers at his beckon call, and as long as he was loyal to the Queen, so were they. Aziraphale only hoped that the rest of the court would be as quick to fall into line. 

He woke up the next morning on a pile of letters, which he quickly dispatched, before hurrying back to his bedroom to fix his appearance. He didn't often wear makeup, but he was in a terrible state. He needed something to cover the dark patches under his eyes, for a start. He brushed it on in a rush, highly conscious of all the work still to be done. As he stared at his sallow face in the vanity mirror, he took a deep breath, and set his makeup brush aside with one shaking hand.

"Hello there, Prince Beelzebub," he practised, straightening up in his chair. His brow creased, and he shook his head. "No, that's not it... erm... Greetings, Prince - ah, too formal. Shall I just... incline my head? Is that too aloof? Dear me, I never was any good at this sort of thing."

He stood up, and began pacing nervously about his room. Almost subconsciously, he made for his balcony, before drawing back at the last moment. "No, they can't see me like this," he chided himself. His subjects needed a particular image of him: powerful, unwavering, focused... in essence, the opposite of the disheveled mess he currently was. "Focus, Aziraphale. Now. Um. Peace, is the, is the utmost important principle of this queendom, Prince Beelzebub, and... Good lord, that's far too aggressive. That won't do."

_Knock knock_

He yelped, before he realised it was just the door. Berating himself, he smoothed down his shirt with both hands and called out: "Who is it?"

"Crowley."

"Oh!" he said, hurrying over to open the door without thinking. "Hello there, dear. You're very early."

"It's almost noon," he said incredulously. 

Aziraphale gasped, looking at the clock. "Good lord! Is that the time?" he said, blanching. "Oh dear, I've slept terribly late. I - I knew I should have asked someone to keep an eye on me!"

"Hey, just, just calm down for a second, will you?" he said, pushing him backward into the room and gently guiding him to sit on the bed. He kicked the door shut behind him. "Sit there and breathe. Stop thinking, for five minutes."

"But - !"

"Five minutes," he said, holding up his hand with a face that brooked no argument. Aziraphale saw his pitiful reflection in those dark glasses, and relented. 

He looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, and wondered what do while he was breathing-and-not-thinking. It was surprisingly difficult. His workload buzzed around his head like a persistent wasp. He needed distraction. He glanced around his room, until his eyes settled on what Crowley was doing. He'd drifted over to the balcony, and was about to slide back the french window. Aziraphale let out a strangled cry.

"No! Don't - Don’t do that!" he said, leaping up and quickly pulling him away from the door.

"What? Why, what have I done now?" he said in exasperation, allowing himself to be dragged.

"If anyone saw you on my bedroom balcony, the rumours would be _appalling,_ " he said, pleading with his eyes. "Let's just sit down over here, yes?"

He sat down by his vanity table, rubbing his eyes, while Crowley settled on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his hands together awkwardly. "I, uh... thought you might want some company," he said. "Prob'ly should've asked first."

"It's quite all right, really. I don't mind," he said shakily, massaging his forehead.

There was a pause. "Are you all right?"

"I'm... physically, yes, I'm absolutely tip-top," he said with a weak smile. "Nothing to fret over."

"Not what I asked," he said. He gestured to his cheek. "You've, uh... smudged a bit..."

Aziraphale looked into the mirror with a jolt of horror. He held up his hands, seeing the makeup smeared down his cheek and across his fingers from where he'd been rubbing. He let out a long whine, his shoulders tensing up even harder as he inspected the damage. "What a mess! Heavens, this is terribly humiliating, I - I am so sorry," he said, beginning to get slightly tearful. He fumbled on his table for a cotton pad. "You're welcome to come back later, Crowley, I'm no good to anyone in this state."

Crowley grimaced, watching him paw frantically at the smudges, making them worse. "It's just makeup, angel," he said, dragging across the spare stool and sitting beside him. "Here, let me help."

"There really is no need, I can manage perfectly - "

"Angel," he cut in, silencing him. He carefully took the cotton pad out of his hand. "Let me help you."

Aziraphale swallowed nervously, and dropped his hands back down onto his lap. He gave a tiny nod. Relieved, Crowley took a fresh cotton pad from the table, and dipped it in the small dish of rose water beside the mirror. With surprising tenderness, he began to dab at Aziraphale's face, gently working away the confusion of colours on his skin. If he realised how close they were, he didn't show it. Aziraphale, unburdened by the concentration which tinted Crowley's expression, felt a tingle run through him, hyper-aware of the proximity. No one was ever allowed so close to him, so near that their legs brushed against one another, and he could feel his breath on his face. In a moment of weakness, he almost leaned closer, desperate to rest his head down against his shoulder and stay there, peacefully, ensconced in his presence. He bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't afford to think that way. Regardless of how softly Crowley touched his face, Aziraphale was a Queen, and some things would always be out of reach, no matter how close. 

"Okay, now your hands," said Crowley. Aziraphale held them out, letting him work over them too, just as sweetly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there were things to worry about, but the gentle ministrations across his hands were enough to keep them at bay. 

Far too quickly, he was clean again, and Crowley swept the used cotton pads into the bin. "I can put your makeup back on again, if you like. I know a charm that makes it stick better," he said. He tactfully ignored the dark circles under his eyes. 

"That would be lovely," he said, hoping he didn't sound too desperate to keep him close. He'd hardly ever known such warmth. Crowley picked up the brush, and set to work. The soft bristles quickly dusted over the light rose tint on his cheeks, though he could tell even as he worked that Crowley was holding something back. "You want to start asking questions again, don't you?"

He hesitated. "I always do," he said, brushing over the shadows beneath his eyes. "Figured you might want a break, though."

His heart fluttered. "Queens don't get breaks, dear. My work is all that I am."

"That's a load of wank. Get a hobby," he said without missing a beat. Aziraphale blinked, taken off-guard, before dissolving into helpless laughter. Crowley pulled back. "What? S'true!"

He struggled half-heartedly against more laughter. "No one's ever put it quite so bluntly before," he said. He shook his head, the mirth slowly dying in his eyes. "But to tell the truth, it's not my title that's bothering me. It's this supposed diplomatic visit."

"Don't think too hard about it."

"It's not that simple," he said, the sharp tang of anxiety returning to his voice. 

"Why not?" he said. Aziraphale looked at him, seeing his guarded heart just beginning to shine through. He suddenly wished he didn't wear those glasses, so he could see if his eyes were just as sincere.

"I'm frightened, Crowley," he whispered; his most disgraceful secret. "I don't know what to do."

His lips parted slightly, the only vestige of surprise he let show. "Well... there's no rule book for this sort of thing. Bound to happen eventually," he said, stumbling over himself as he grasped for the right words. "What's the worst that could happen, anyway?"

"War," he said, "and ruin."

He pursed his lips. "Ah," he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the handle of the makeup brush. "I'm sure it won't come to that."

"But it could. Gabriel wants it to," he said. "He's wanted to 'prove our superiority' over the Unseelie for centuries now."

"Gabriel's a prat."

"Saying that doesn't change it," he said cuttingly. He sighed, his stiff posture beginning to slip. "Prince Beelzebub will be here tomorrow. I have no idea what I'm going to say to them. People have already begun to talk of declaring war, and good heavens, I dread to think what they'd be saying if I'd told them what Duke Hastur had threatened me with!"

Crowley's brow creased. "What did he threaten you with?" 

"Y - You don't know?" he said, suddenly pulled up short.

"I was too busy rescuing you at the time, angel, I didn't exactly stop for a chat," he said irritably. "What did he say?"

He fiddled with his hands, mumbling something unintelligible. Crowley put down the makeup brush, making a point of giving the Queen his full attention. "At - At first he planned to sell the children and I into slavery," he said, fidgeting, fully aware of the deepening sourness in his expression. "Then he realised who I was, and - uh - planned to kidnap me, to be held for ransom, or... or I imagine they’d have made me into a sort of plaything."

"Should've killed him too," he growled, flexing his hand. 

"Don't say things like that. We're not killing anybody," he said. He paused for a moment. "Or, anybody _else,_ at least."

He snorted, shaking his head with a helpless smile. "Touché," he said. "Look, angel... I don't know anything about politics."

"I noticed."

"Hey, we're having a moment here. Don't ruin it," he said, half-joking. Aziraphale's lip twitched up slightly. "As I was saying: I don't know much, but I can be there, if you want me to be. When they arrive, I mean. For solidarity."

"That... That would be much appreciated, my dear," he said, wishing he had the courage to tell him how much that really meant. "Thank you."


	7. The Game Of Diplomacy

The Unseelie delegation arrived with fanfare and banners flying. Aziraphale had done impressively well to have as many flags flying as the city could muster with one day's notice, but it seemed that the pastel white-and-blue colours were blotted out by the charcoal banners over the visitors' heads. Word was sent to the palace immediately. 

Aziraphale swept into the throne room, schooling his expression carefully as he walked up the steps to his throne. Gabriel already stood tall by his side, glancing down at him as he settled into his seat. "Today's the day," he said.

"A day like any other, I hope," he said, his breath catching in his throat as something crashed into the other side of the double doors. Then, he recognised the muffled cursing behind them, and relaxed. Crowley stumbled into the room, slightly out of breath. 

"Sorry I'm late, angel. I only just heard," he said, jogging up the steps. 

"What is he doing here?" Gabriel sneered. "We don't have time for games."

"He's here at my request," Aziraphale said, hoping to soothe them both before they started a fight. Crowley shot Gabriel a sarcastic smile, standing on the opposite side of the throne beside the pedestal. He glanced down, curious about the box on top. Through the glass window in the lid, there was a gleaming crown, though personally he thought it looked a little too modest for a Queen to be wearing. It didn't even have any gemstones in it. 

Gabriel didn't have time to complain again before the doors of the hall swung open. Aziraphale sat straighter, and Crowley followed his gaze to the figure at the head of the Unseelie delegates. _They're shorter than I remember,_ was his first thought upon seeing Beelzebub. He'd only met them once before, years ago in passing, but the surly look on their face still hadn't moved. The fly on top of their head buzzed irritably as they reached the foot of the throne's steps, and Crowley was suddenly thankful that he was a shapeshifter and not an... animal-head fae. Whatever they were called. 

"Prince Beelzebub. Welcome," said Aziraphale with a respectful smile. It was not returned. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Their eyes drifted to Crowley. He didn't react. "Queen Aziraphale," they said tightly. Addressing a higher rank always got under their skin. "One of my Dukezzz was killed. On your land."

He caught the disbelieving look Gabriel shot him, and suddenly realised that he'd neglected to mention Ligur's death until now. "W - Well, one could argue, Prince Beelzebub, that he really had no right to be here in the first place," he said, pressing his lips into a tight line. 

Beelzebub cleared their throat and, sensing his cue, Hastur shouldered his way to the front. Crowley stamped out the urge to let loose an impressed whistle at the sight of the raw, angry burns on his face. Aziraphale winced. "We were passing through. We hadn't done anything," he said, putting Aziraphale's hackles up immediately. He ploughed on heedlessly, his voice cracking as he jabbed a finger up at Crowley. "And that's when _he_ came out of the woods and - and he hit Ligur with his horse!"

Crowley pouted. "No I didn't," he said. "He hit me."

"He was standing still!" he shrieked.

"He was in my way," he said. "He saw me coming. He just didn't move. Anyway, wasn't it your horse that ran over him a second time? I think that was what finished him off."

Beelzebub turned slowly, glaring, as Hastur began to splutter and fumble over his words. "Perhapszz, what we should be asking is how exactly you came to be here, Dullahan?" the Prince suggested, eyeing him with mistrust. "Are you loyal to thiszz Queen?"

"Uh..." he said, turning minutely to Aziraphale, wondering if he should defer the question. 

"He is a guest in my court," he said, picking up the slack. Gabriel's attention suddenly felt just as demanding as the Unseelie fae's. "But that's my business, not yours. I must insist that you answer me this time, when I ask why you've come to my realm."

They smirked. "Not for you," they said. They nodded in Crowley's direction. "Since he iszz only a guest, you won't mind me borrowing him, to face trial for Ligur’s death in our realm. He iszz Unseelie, after all."

His shoulders locked up in tension, sharing a panicked glance with Crowley. A slimy smile began to curl Gabriel's lip. "You can't claim jurisdiction here just because he's Unseelie! No more than I could claim to rule over every Seelie fae in the world!" he cried. Their true intentions struck him immediately; having Crowley nearby gave him a monstrous advantage over the Pine Queendom. They wanted to take that away. 

"He haszz no diplomatic immunity. You cannot stop me," they replied. 

"He can," Gabriel spoke up, sensing his opportunity. Aziraphale's heart lurched. "You know he can."

"You propose war," they said, and an excited murmur went up among the Unseelie delegation. 

"He most certainly does not!" Aziraphale said, gripping the armrests of his throne until his knuckles turned white. "There doesn't have to be a war. We've lived in peace for thousands of years."

"I agree," they said, tilting their head slowly. Aziraphale let out a tiny sigh of relief. "Hand him over, and it will stay that way."

Aziraphale was incensed. He spluttered indignantly, struggling to pluck the right words from the storm of anxiety in his head. He couldn't condemn Crowley. They'd never give him a fair trial. The alternative flashed in his mind's eye: a reel of flame, clashing blades and his beloved city streets running red with the lives of his people. What about the children? An invading force could cause irreparable damage to the queendom, and to him, if they attacked his blossom tree. He might never recover. His heart pounded in his ears as he stared, silently crazed with panic, at the Unseelie Prince. He was freezing up, and he knew it. 

"If there is a war," Crowley said, his voice cutting through his worries as easily as sweeping aside a cobweb. "I will fight for him."

Gabriel leaned forward, gawking across the throne. No one had expected that. The Unseelie nobles all began sharing uncertain glances, mumbling to one another. The Dullahan had never taken sides in a war. He was neutral by his very nature — or at least, that’s what they had assumed. If the Dullahan appeared in wartime, he came to ride across the field once the killing was done and the crows had begun to flock. The image of that hooded silhouette haunted many a dying soldier, as they lay bleeding out under a red dawn. Crowley preferred to foretell the deaths of the aftermath... Riding _before_ a battle would feel a bit like playing Captain Obvious. 

"Why?" Beelzebub snapped, bristling. They would never be able to rally troops to march against a cavalry led by the Dullahan himself. "What haszz he done to warrant your loyalty?"

"This isn't about loyalty. This is revenge," Crowley pointed at Hastur, who went slightly cross-eyed staring at his outstretched arm (or he would have done, if he still had both eyes). "He stabbed me, in case you forgot. I don't take that lightly."

Crowley held eye contact, taking advantage of his reptilian stillness to hide his anxiety. He'd never fought a war in his life, let alone commanded any troops. If Beelzebub called his bluff, well... Aziraphale would be well within his rights to behead Crowley* in the town square for sparking an unnecessary war. Determined to win, he drew himself up taller, glaring as hard as he could through his sunglasses. Beelzebub wavered. Stab wound or not, revenge didn't explain why Crowley leapt to Aziraphale's defence in the first place, but it would be remarkably brave of them to point that out. They were in an impossible position. If they pushed the arrest, they'd start a war they couldn't hope to win. 

*And then realise that beheading the headless horseman doesn't work, and try setting him on fire instead. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I think it would be best if we simply left one another alone from now on," he said, having finally gotten over the shock of Crowley hijacking the negotiations for a moment. Their expression curdled. 

"For now," they said, giving a pitifully shallow bow to his throne. They turned, scattering their courtiers as they stormed back toward the doors, leaving with the glaring omission of any goodbye. 

The doors swung shut, and Aziraphale immediately buried his head in his hands with a pained groan. Gabriel ignored him, rounding on Crowley. "You would have done better to keep your mouth shut," he said, glaring daggers. 

"What? And let you go and start a war for no bloody reason?" he said. He gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Nice try. Ever heard of a deterrent?"

"No reason? Don't make me laugh. They've been a menace to our borders for centuries. Those fae need to be reminded where they stand," he said. If the throne hadn't been in the way, he'd be nose to nose with Crowley by now. "We could have won."

"You just did. There is no war," he shot back. 

Aziraphale steeled himself with a deep breath, and stood up. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. He coughed. "There is no war," he mumbled to himself, repeating Crowley's words as if to convince himself they were more than a dream. A glimmer of a smile began to touch his lips. Gabriel's face soured. 

Aziraphale turned, beaming at the Dullahan. "Oh - Oh, Crowley, I could kiss you! Thank you, thank you so much," he said, briefly grasping his shoulders before hurrying down the steps. "I really must be off, but mark my words, I will put on the most marvellous feast tonight to celebrate, in your honour. Oh, I am simply over the moon!"

He dashed out the side-door, leaving Gabriel and Crowley on either side of the throne. They stared at one another for a moment, and Gabriel couldn't remember a time when his whole being burnt with jealousy like this. How dare he... How dare this outsider, this rankless nobody, just waltz in out of the woods and steal the Queen's attention so easily. What did he have that Gabriel didn't? He curled his hands into fists behind his back, feeling his nails dig into his palms.

Crowley's lip began to curl, oh-so-slowly, into a smug, insufferable grin. "He could kiss me," he gloated. 

A crowd gathered amongst the roots of the palace to hear Aziraphale's announcement. The talks with Prince Beelzebub had been surprisingly short and already, people were speculating about hasty declarations of war. Fearful murmurs filled the air. When Aziraphale emerged to stand at the plateau at the very top of the staircase to the tree with a broad smile on his face, the atmosphere of dread began to disperse. 

Mrs Young listened to the speech, her hands clinging tightly to her son's shoulders. She'd uneasily allowed him back to work after her run-in with the Dullahan in the street. Crowley hadn't seemed aggressive, after all. If anything, he was surprisingly laid-back. Now, the Queen was publicly showering the Dullahan with praise, thanking him for his bravery and cunning in the face of the sensitive Unseelie issue. As he spoke, obviously getting carried away with himself, Crowley did his best to shrink into the background, his cheeks now a shade of hot pink.

"It is only fitting, of course, that we celebrate the peace that our new friend here has helped us protect," Aziraphale said, gesturing to his side and doing a double take when he noticed how far Crowley had cringed backward. He hesitated, then kept going. "Ah - so, there will be a public feast tonight, open to all. I hope to see you all there."

He took a step back, indicating that his speech had ended. The crowd broke into a raucous cheer, applauding as he gave a shy smile and a wave, retreating back toward the palace doors. Mrs Young clapped, too, though she squinted up at the dark figure beside the Queen. They seemed to be talking in hushed voices as the doors swung shut behind them, the Dullahan ducking his head lower to listen attentively to Aziraphale's words. Adam looked up at his mother. 

"See? Told you he wasn't so bad," he said. 

She nodded, dimly aware of the festival atmosphere already kicking up around her. She steered Adam out of the crowd, back toward home, where she'd need to prepare her offering for the feast. The palace kitchens would provide the bulk of the food, but it was tradition that any family who could afford to contribute would do so. Adam kept talking about going out into the woods again, now it was safe to leave the city. She couldn't remember if she agreed. Her thoughts were too taken up with the Dullahan, and what it really meant for the city, if he stayed.

No one had said anything about when he might be leaving them, after all, and what would happen when he did. He could only keep the Unseelie threat at bay for as long as he lived here. Once he left, they were open to attack again, and Prince Beelzebub was not above holding grudges. The jubilation in the streets drifted in through the open window, the relief tangible in the air, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to share it. She looked over at her son. He was trying to get Dog to stand on his hind legs, and the faerie hound was not quite getting it. A vulnerable smile found her lips; the Queen loved her son, too, and she knew he'd never intentionally let him come to harm. She had to trust that he knew what he was doing. She had to.

Aziraphale stood on his balcony, looking down at the preparations for the feast. The palace tables were set out already, but people were also dragging out tables from their own houses to bolster the numbers. He smiled. He loved to see them pull together like this; he couldn't be a prouder Queen. Now and then, someone would look up and wave to him, and he would wave back, hoping they could see the gesture even from that great height. He'd have loved to go down there and see what was happening up close, but all too often he found that it was better to keep his distance. No one acted the same when he was nearby. He'd go down to the feast later, and sit at the table nearest the palace, and he'd be surrounded by the same people he always was. Gabriel would be there, and Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon, and - 

There was a knock on the doorframe behind him. "Crowley!" he said, smiling. He stepped back inside, away from the prying eyes from below.

"Your door was unlocked. Don't think you heard me knock," he said, nodding toward the slightly ajar bedroom door. 

He tutted. "Do you know how much bother I'd be in, if someone found out you were coming and going from my bedroom as you pleased?" he said, sliding the balcony door shut. 

"Uh, none. You're the Queen."

"I thought we'd established that it isn't that simple," he said, taking his white coat off the rack and slipping it on. "I have standards. Expectations. Responsibilities."

He held up his hands in surrender, though he clearly wasn't convinced. "If you say so," he said. "Anyway, are we going down to this party or not? Wensleydale told me it wouldn't start until you got there."

"No, for some reason, it won't. I can't fathom why, I've never said so," he said, adjusting his coat collar and making for the door. "If anything, they ought to be waiting for you. It's your celebration."

He rubbed the back of his neck, following him out the door. "Never had a party thrown for me before."

"Not even for your birthday?" he said. "Or creation-day, whichever you have."

"Nope. Not really sure when my creation-day is," he said, earning him a quizzical look over his shoulder. "Samhain is my best guess. It was somewhere around that time of year."

"I shall have to remember that. You have plenty of parties to catch up on," he said. Crowley didn't comment on the fact that he'd be gone long before next Samhain, for fear Aziraphale might take it in his head to change that. He still intended to leave once his three months were up. 

The tables outside overflowed with food of every kind. Petronius had turned out a true royal feast, and the home-cooked dishes interspersed up and down the train of tables only added to the aroma of warmth, spices and domestic comfort. Makeshift wreaths, fashioned from willow and wild plants, adorned the buildings up and down the streets, and most of the children in the city had been hard at work creating crowns from wildflowers, to hand out once the feast got underway. This time, no one questioned why Crowley sat at Aziraphale's right. 

Gabriel was once again relegated to the next seat along. He'd expected that. Bitterness was taking hold in his gut, putting him off his food. He muttered in Michael's ear: "He's getting distracted," with a gesture toward Aziraphale, who was too wrapped up in telling Crowley about the wine to notice. "If this doesn't stop..."

"It will," Michael replied, eyeing Crowley surreptitiously. "He has no intention to stay."

"He interfered with the negotiations. Prince Beelzebub was ready for war," he said, glaring at his untouched plate. "We were so close."

"There will be a war, eventually," he said, his voice low, trying to reassure him without drawing attention. "He can't avoid it forever."

"He'll try. He knows what it would mean for him," he said. "Nothing pushes progress like war."

Progress, in this sense, meant Gabriel's personal agenda. Battle brought risks, and risks threatened the whole realm. A Queen who ruled alone was always vulnerable, always weaker, always a target. If Beelzebub could capture or kill Aziraphale, they would be free to claim the whole Queendom for themselves, since there would be no Seelie heir. A war would put pressure on Aziraphale, unlike anything else could. Gabriel had been searching for ways to push him for eons. He didn't spare a thought for the collateral damage, the innocent lives, what it would mean if his plan failed... Somewhere in his heart, though he would never admit to such cynicism, Aziraphale knew that. Come Hell or high water, he had decided long ago that Gabriel would never be king. 

Luckily for him, Gabriel and Michael's conversation didn't drift far enough to reach his ears. He took great relish in testing the homemade foods which were within his reach, so much so that he hardly noticed Crowley not touching his food. Crowley was a serpent, after all, and he'd eaten a large meal a few months ago. He wouldn't need another one for a while yet. He tasted whatever Aziraphale offered him, though, just to be polite (and definitely not because he enjoyed being spoon-fed). 

Some time after the sun started to settle under the horizon, and fireflies lit up the streets in-between the gas lamps, Crowley felt a small tug on his sleeve. He looked down, and blinked in surprise. "Oh. Hi," he said.

The young boy, whose fiery orange hair was not unlike Crowley's own, shied away slightly. "Er - erm, hello, Mister Dullahan, sir," he stammered, looking down at his feet. Crowley shared an amused glance with Aziraphale, who clearly found the whole thing rather endearing. "I... I brought you something, to say thank you for helping his majesty stop the war. H - Here."

With shaking hands, he held up a flower crown made from delicately interwoven sweet peas of a deep purple hue. Crowley blinked in surprise, suddenly glad he was wearing sunglasses, slightly overwhelmed with the sincerity of the gesture. "Wow," he said, not quite sure what to say. Most children cried when they saw him, not gave him presents. "Thanks."

He tentatively reached over, worried that he might frighten him. The boy didn't move, a little astounded himself with the care Crowley took when he lifted the flower crown onto his head. "How do I look?" he asked with a lopsided grin. 

"Like a king," the boy replied excitedly. Behind him, Gabriel choked on his wine. 

Crowley laughed, mostly at Gabriel. "I'll take that. Thanks, kid," he said, settling back into his chair as the boy scurried off back down the table again. He finally caught on to the gleeful smile Aziraphale was wearing. "What?"

"Nothing," he said as he gathered another forkful of his meal. He paused for a moment, pondering his words before he blurted them out anyway: "It is rather fetching, that’s all."

"Right. Thanks," he said, feeling a warmth in his cheeks. He might’ve overthought that comment, if the wine hasn’t muffled his internal monologue so effectively. Instead, it sent a flutter through his chest. He was also dimly aware that Gabriel had descended into a full coughing fit, which made the moment that much sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the positive response to the story so far, all your comments make such a huge difference to life indoors these days. I love you all! Stay safe and look after yourselves!


	8. Hush

The Blossom Queendom had never known winter. Time flowed, but the season was ever-stagnant, blind to the changes unfurling in the human world just across the veil. While the sun shone on Aziraphale's realm like always, the humans on his doorstep had been battered by the harshest winter in decades. Crowley had been lurking in the area for just that reason, nearly a month ago, when he'd first happened upon the gateway between worlds. 

The sky over the human world was immutably grey, in various different shades. Twilight was just beginning to bleed darkness into the sky when Warlock emerged from his house, a threadbare coat over his bony shoulders. He glanced back into the dim, smoky warmth of his house, already shivering. His mother stared ruefully down at him. 

"I have to watch over your father, Warlock, I'm sorry," she said, half kneeling down to his level. A strained cough rose up from behind her, as if to prove her point. With a pained smile, she pulled Warlock's coat tighter around him, guilt needling her as she felt the way his ribs stuck out underneath. "Go gather firewood for me, there's a good boy. Don't take too long."

"You mean... in the forest?" he said, hesitant. The village elders told stories about the strange, wild things living out there, things that would cackle in the face of reason and revel in the misery of their human neighbours. 

"You'll be okay," she said, stroking his cheek gently. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Just don't go too far from the village, okay? Then if you get in any trouble, someone will be able to hear you."

He nodded, even as his gut churned with both hunger and unease. "Okay, mama," he said.

"Thank you, Warlock. I love you, very much," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he went. 

He would have jogged out of the village, if he'd had the strength. His muscles just didn't have the mettle to go any faster than a dejected walk, especially as the icy wind clawed his face. Frost glittered in the half-light upon the frozen furrows of earth in the narrow strips of farmland behind each property, reminding him of his last meal. Well, _meal_ was probably too grand a term. It was a meagre portion of potato in a broth which was more water than food. Mother did her best, but even she couldn't magic food out of nowhere. Pushing it out of his head, Warlock ducked beneath a tree branch, into the woods. 

The canopy was thin here, and it had let in the rain. Every stick he touched was damp. With a hum of discontent, he glanced over his shoulder at the odd flicker of lamplight that strained between the trees from his village. It wasn't too far away, and his gut clenched to imagine a night without the hearth burning... a little further wouldn't hurt. 

The twisted shadows thrown down by the branches quickly thickened and congealed into a singular black mass, encircling him on every side. Though his breath still emerged in a cloud, the wind had dropped. He looked back again, just to be sure that he could still catch a glimpse of the village through the woods. It was still there, just about. Or was that really the moonlight straining through the leaves...? It was hard to tell. Gripped with malaise, he crouched down and gathered as many dry sticks as he could find. He took a few more steps forward, snatching them up as he went, struggling to catch their shapes in the dark. 

Something caught his attention, just in the corner of his eye. He could have sworn he saw a shimmer of some kind. Breath catching in his throat, he whirled around, but saw nothing. No one was there. "Hello...?" he called, his voice cracked with the biting chill. 

His eyes dropped to the ground. Despite the oppressive shadows, there was a mushroom growing on the forest floor, so luminously white that it stood out even against the black earth. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes began to pick out another, and another... There was a perfect circle of these beautiful white toadstools, he realised, as if someone had come and planted them there deliberately. He wondered why. Coming closer, he bent down to get a closer look, wondering if he could pick them to take home. He just hoped they weren't poisonous... He stepped over the line of toadstools, intending to gather the largest ones on the far side of the circle. 

He cried out, throwing up his hand to shield his eyes from a sudden glaring light. His firewood clattered to the ground. He blinked slowly, his eyes struggling to adjust. Birdsong drifted through the air, and his skin tingled under an unexpected wave of warmth. He lowered his hands.

"Wh... Where am I?" he wondered aloud, turning around in awe, accosted in every direction by an unfamiliar environment. The trees here were flush with broad, green leaves, without so much as a hint of orange or, Heaven forbid, brown. The sun was still up, as it always was during the long summer days. 

He looked around, and his eyes stopped abruptly on the bough of apples barely three feet away. They were blushing red, ripe, and extremely inviting; hunger clawed savagely at his belly. Without another thought, Warlock snatched the fruit from the branch, and devoured it in under a minute. Then, he took another. That went down just as easily. He grinned stupidly as he wolfed down the food, his chin sticky with apple juice, finally able to banish the gnawing hunger he'd been unable to shake since winter began. He'd collapsed down onto the dusty ground, and was now at eye level with a burgeoning blackberry bush. Throwing down his apple core, he helped himself to the berries, too.

Once he was done stuffing his face with blackberries, he wiped his mouth and stood up again. He'd never felt better. Whatever this place was, he'd have to keep coming back. This could save lives during winters like this! Excited to share his discovery, he grabbed a few extra apples as proof, and went to dive back through the ring of toadstools into the dark forest from which he'd came. He ran across the circle, and found himself... still there, in the summer sun. He stumbled, unnerved. He tried again, the other way. Still, nothing changed. 

He spun around, wondering if he might still be able to see the village. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was a hopeless thought. Even so, he tried to get his bearings, heading back the way he thought he might have come. "Hello? Hey! Mama?" he cried hoarsely, breaking into as much of a jog as he could manage. No one replied, save the birds overhead. Tears began to tighten his throat. "Mama? Can anyone hear me?"

He came to a halt at the edge of a meadow. He swallowed thickly, looking out onto the vast and unfamiliar expanse of swaying grassland. There was nothing like this near his village. Sniffling, he scanned the horizon, seeing an enormous shadow, far in the distance. It was tall and imposing, almost tree-shaped, but it couldn't be. Trees didn't get that big. As he squinted, trying to make out what it could be through a haze of tears, a twig snapped behind him. He lurched. 

"Hey!" cried an unfamiliar voice as he whirled around. "I haven't seen you before. Are you with the travelling market?"

Warlock stared, dumbstruck. It was a boy around his age, with a messy head of hair and a small dog by his foot. As soon as they locked eyes, the boy was taken aback. "Wow. You look terrible," he said, taking in his sunken cheeks and sallow face. 

"Who are you?" Warlock said, stumbling back slightly. 

"My name's Adam," he said affably, holding out his hand to shake. Cautiously, Warlock took it. "So, why're you here? I haven't seen any caravans nearby."

He shook his head, and wiped his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. I got lost in the woods and - and now I'm here. I don't know what this place is," he said, glancing around as if expecting it to vanish around him at any moment. 

"It's the Blossom Queendom," he said easily. He seemed to pick up on Warlock's confusion, and looked down at his dog with excitement. "Hang on... Are you human?"

"Course. Aren't you?" he said, his skin breaking out into goosebumps despite the warmth. 

"No!" he laughed, jumping closer to Warlock, who lurched backwards even further. Adam didn't seem to mind. "Does that mean you know where the gateway is? Can you take me there? I've never seen the human world! Are you all so thin and sick-looking?”

Overwhelmed, he shook his head frantically. "N - No, I don't - I can't get back home," he said, shying away. "I don’t - I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Adam deflated. "Oh. S'alright," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t seem to grasp the depth of his distress. "D'you fancy a game of hide and seek? My friends couldn't come out today."

"I want to go home," he replied firmly, wrapping his arms around himself. 

He hummed. "Well, if you're sure..." he said thoughtfully. "I reckon I know someone who can help you with that. Follow me."

Aziraphale sat on his balcony, soaking in the last of the sunshine after dinner. He sipped his tea, perfectly at-ease, with a light wind ruffling his hair. Having Crowley around these last few weeks had certainly helped to ease the rigmarole of court life, but he would always value these quiet moments to himself... 

There was a knock at the door. He looked up from his cup with a deeply exasperated sigh. "Who is it?" he said tightly, refusing to move from his chair. 

"Adam," his visitor called, which was quickly followed by the telltale tap-tap-tap of Dog's claws. Aziraphale twisted around and, sure enough, the hound had already jumped onto his bed. He only had a moment to scowl at the animal before another glaring detail caught his attention. 

"Oh. Adam, who's this?" he said, smoothing his posture out again and quickly scrabbling to recover his usual poise. The other young boy was lingering by the door, staring wide-eyed around the room like a frightened animal. He was mere days away from starvation, that much Aziraphale knew. His gut clenched as he wondered how on Earth anyone in his Queendom could be starving without him knowing anything about it.

"Warlock. He's a human," he said, hopping up onto the bed beside his dog. 

"What?" he cried, leaping to his feet. Warlock flinched. "Adam Young, if I find out that you kidnapped a human from their home - !"

"I didn't! I don’t even know how to go to the human world,” he said defensively. "I just found him in the meadow. Didn't I, Warlock?"

The human nodded uneasily, his frightened gaze still fixed on Aziraphale. Noticing, he straightened out his cardigan and put on his friendliest smile. "Hello there," he said, not wanting to frighten him. "My name is Aziraphale. I'm the Queen of this realm. Pleasure to meet you, young man."

"Uh... don't you mean king?" he said, glancing at Adam. 

"No, certainly not," he said with a small pout. "Why would I mean that?"

"You're a man. Aren't you...?" he said, second-guessing himself. 

"After a fashion, I suppose. Human notions like that can be... a smidge too rigid, let's say, to describe our kind," he said, clasping his hands together. He gestured toward the table and chairs on the balcony; he felt as if this boy could collapse at any moment. "Come, take the weight off your feet. Would you like some food? You're all skin and bones, it seems."

Warlock hauled himself into a chair, and wrung his hands together for a moment. It had been a long walk from the meadow, and his stomach already felt empty again. "Yes, please," he said. 

"Adam, if you would be so kind," Aziraphale said, settling down in the chair across from him. Adam spluttered, about to argue, but fell silent again when he got a stern look. Sighing, he hopped down from the bed, leaving Dog lounging on the velvet cushions, and disappeared out the door again. "He'll rustle up something tasty, I'm sure."

"Thank you," he said, struggling to meet his eyes. Aziraphale took the opportunity to look a bit closer at him: dirt clung to his face, matting his hair, and the threads on his clothes could barely hold the seams together anymore. His heart cried out in sympathy. He'd not seen this sort of poverty since his very early days as Queen. He’d forgotten how cruel the human world could be, even to its children.

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line. "Now... I can't help but notice the blackberry juice on your face, dear boy," he said sombrely. 

Warlock's hand flew to his face. "I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to steal, I just - I've hardly eaten in days," he said, cringing backward as if he expected a smack.

"Hush, hush, dear," he said, as softly as he could as he scrambled to rectify his mistake. What on Earth had happened to this poor child? "I forgive you, but I - I was only about to explain... once you've eaten the food here, the gateway closes behind you."

He let out a strangled cry. "You mean I'm trapped?"

"Not necessarily. Adam was right to bring you to me. I can reopen the door, don't you fret, but..." he said, hesitating for moment. He was about to propose something that he knew Warlock would not take well, but it was for his own good. "I'd much rather you stay here until the worst of the season out there has passed."

"But... but my parents..." he said, grasping at his jacket, his last vestige of home. He felt a pang of bitterness toward Adam, who seemed to have dutifully delivered him right into the arms of his covetous leader.

"They'll still be there, come the spring," he said. It was a weak reassurance, possibly not even a trustworthy one, but... One less mouth to feed over winter might just be enough to make it true. He'd heard plenty about the hardships of winter, even if he'd never seen them in the flesh. Looking at the emaciated child in front of him brought that into sharp focus. "I'll take good care of you in the meantime, of course."

Warlock stared across at him, through the curtain of unkempt hair hanging over his eyes. The Queen looking back at him didn't seem dangerous, at least not at first, but there was something distinctly... inhuman, behind those eyes. Warlock had spent many warm days by the village pond, catching frogs, and found himself beginning to wonder if this is how they felt; plucked from their simple little world and held between the thumb and forefinger of Something Other. Warlock swallowed hard. He wasn't always as kind as he could've been to those frogs. 

"You promise?" he said, stomach churning. He didn't really have a choice, if Aziraphale was the only one who could reopen the gateway.

"You have my word," he said warmly. "You just stick close to me, and you'll be right as rain."

Warlock nodded, staring blankly across the lush realm and hoping to startle awake from this bizarre dream at any moment. When Adam returned, he ate well for the second time that evening. He’d had been able to snatch some warm leftovers from dinner, as well as a few ginger cakes, to bring back to the balcony. He helped himself to some food, too, and pestered Warlock with questions about the human world. Aziraphale didn't intervene; Warlock seemed grateful for the distraction. When his eyelids began to drop, and dusk finally settled over the realm, Aziraphale looked over at him. 

"Time for bed, I think," he said, setting down his teacup. He paused for a moment, wondering where he could put the young human, to make sure he was safe. He couldn't sleep in Aziraphale's room, mostly because he almost certainly wouldn't want to. That said, the idea of one of his courtiers finding Warlock on his own in the palace somewhere sent chills down his spine. To them, human life ranked the same as that of bugs and fish. He didn't trust them not to take advantage.

He sent Adam back home (though not without a small grumble about the dog hair on his bed, since he'd forgotten the hound was even there), and took Warlock by the hand. "Come along, dear, this way," he said, ushering him out of the room and down the stairs. "Tell me, do you know the rules of engagement with the fae?"

He shook his head, his attention split between their conversation and the ever-changing scenery of the palace. "Mama told me that the fae were just a scary story that the elders told, so the younger kids don't get lost in the woods," he said.

"Ah. Not a local, then, your mother," he said with an awkward smile. He shook his head. "I can assure you we are very real, and just like humans, we can be rather dangerous. As luck would have it, there are ways to protect yourself. Don't eat the food, for example, though I realise it's a bit late for that."

"I said I was sorry," he murmured bitterly.

He gave him a sharp look. "And I said I forgive you. Remember you're speaking to royalty, dear boy. Watch your manners," he said. Warlock kept his eyes firmly to the floor in mutinous silence. "Anyway, as I was saying. The most important rule of all is never to tell anyone your full name. You must promise me you won't, dear. If anyone asks you to, you must tell me, and I shall be having very stern words with them."

"I won't," he said, as the came to a halt outside a door. Aziraphale opened it, showing him inside. That one room was almost as large as his whole house (which was also, incidentally, only one room), with a mattress almost as deep as he was tall and an en suite bathroom. The bowed wooden walls were painted baby blue, though the grain still peeked through the translucent colour. 

"Here we are, a room of your own," he said, nudging him inside. His jaw hung open, barely able to comprehend the luxury which had been suddenly dropped in his lap. "My friend is just across the hall, if there's an emergency. You can trust him, the redheaded chap in the sunglasses. Don't speak to anyone else unless I'm there."

Warlock's stomach dropped. "Wait, why?" he said, spinning back around to face him. "Am I in danger?"

Aziraphale smiled unconvincingly, shaking his head. "No! No, it’s all absolutely safe as houses, just tickety-boo," he said, pressing a hand against his heart. 

He crossed his arms tightly. "I guess," he said. No matter how dubious, he was his best chance at making it home sometime soon. 

He sighed, letting some of the tension release from his shoulders. He grasped the door handle, beginning to withdraw. "Wonderful. Sweet dreams, dear, and, um - " he said, hesitating a moment. "Don't forget to lock your door. Just in case."

He quickly shut the door behind him, not allowing Warlock to fully compute his final warning before he disappeared. He waited a moment, tugging his bow tie, holding his ear close to the door... until he heard the telltale _snick_ of the lock sliding into place. He smiled. He and the palace were one in the same, so he could have locked the door himself if he'd really wanted, but that would only alarm the poor boy. Best to let him do it himself. Satisfied that he was safe, at least for the night, he turned and crossed the hall to the opposite door. He rapped neatly three times. There was a muffled response from the other side which sounded suspiciously like _fuck off._ He pouted, crossing his arms.

"Well, that is no way to address royalty," he said disdainfully. 

Crowley must have heard, because he cracked open the door a moment later. "Angel, it's dark. What?"

"If there's a knock on this door in the night, be a dear and open it, won't you?" he said pleasantly, folding his hands behind his back. He was very glad that Crowley had finally been able to move out of the infirmary for a proper room of his own, or Warlock could well have been entirely unguarded all night. 

"Why?" he said, rubbing his eye underneath his sunglasses. A quiet thought in the back of Aziraphale's mind remarked on how delightfully gravelly Crowley's voice had become. 

"Erm, you see, well... There's a young boy in the room just across from you. He's terribly skittish, and very far from home, poor dear, and... trifling little detail, really, but..." he said, fiddling with his shirt collar. "He's human."

Crowley took a moment to process that. His brow creased. "Angel," he said, massaging his temples. "Why do you have a human child?"

"I didn't kidnap him, if that's what you're implying. I'm not that sort of Queen," he said, turning his nose up. "He got lost, and he'll be staying until it's safe for him to go home. I told him he could ask you for help if he needs it."

"Did you, now?"

"Yes," he replied insistently. Crowley felt the uncomfortable tingle of an order along his spine... Aziraphale had invoked his true name a few times, but Crowley had quickly realised that he had no idea he was doing it. He just got testy sometimes, and it sort of... happened on its own. It was only ever for trivial things - _try this new dish,_ or _be a dear and return this to the library, would you?_ Crowley didn't mind that. They were things he'd have done anyway, regardless of the power Aziraphale forgot he held. 

"All right. I'll keep an ear out," he said, cool relief replacing that terrible itch. He hadn't told Aziraphale about it. He'd be mortified, and he was doing no harm, really. "Can I go to bed now, sire?"

Aziraphale tutted. "I suppose," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Sleep well, dear."

Warlock did his best to wash himself. He did fairly well, considering that running water was an entirely new concept to him, and that the soaps on the side of the bath were labelled in a language he couldn't read (which could be any; he was illiterate). He decided to stick with what he recognised, and just used a bar of soap to scrub the dirt from his skin. The water was grey by the time he was done, and twigs floated on the surface. He clambered out of the bath, finding a fluffy dressing gown which he supposed would be nice whilst he was drying off. 

There was a long mirror in his room, beside a small table with combs and perfumes which were standard in every palace bedroom. He spritzed one bottle experimentally. A plume of rose-scented air assaulted his face, and he coughed and choked, setting it back down immediately. He wrinkled his nose, rubbing it off his face. 

"Don't like that," he muttered. He picked up a comb instead, and began to experimentally drag it through his hair. It caught a few times, making him wince, but he was able to unpick the knots with a bit of perseverance. Eventually, he set it down again, and looked into the mirror. 

He'd only ever seen his reflection before in pondwater, or distorted in the metal of a spoon or knife. The boy in the mirror stared back at him. He was still, the image undisturbed by rippling water, and... unfamiliar. His hair was damp, slicked back against his head, and he was certain that he'd never seen his skin unmarred by mud until today. He messed with the hem of the dressing gown, surprised to find himself enjoying the soft fabric. It was bizarre. Everything seemed daunting: this palace, its odd Queen, and even the supposedly safe stranger across the hall... but he’d had his first decent meal in weeks, and the first proper bath of his life. For all his otherworldliness, Aziraphale seemed genuinely invested in his wellbeing. Maybe, just maybe... staying here a while wouldn't really be so bad. 

Harriet Dowling wasn't from around here. She'd come from across the sea in hope of a better life, though she’d found only cold nights and unforgiving seasons. That's not to say she didn't get anything she asked for, though. Her husband, who had fallen ill days prior, was a good man at heart, and he’d given her a beautiful son. Warlock was her most precious treasure. He could be troublesome, yes, and unruly, to be sure, but he loved his mother. She fanned the fire desperately, wondering when he'd be back. She needed the firewood soon, or they'd have a freezing night ahead... What was taking him so long?

Eventually, wrapping her thin shawl around her, she braved the biting winds and stepped outside. She looked up and down the uneven road, hoping to see his small silhouette coming back home with an armful of branches. The more she looked, desperate to find a flicker of movement under the moonlight, the more silent the world became. Her heart skipped a beat. Taking a gulp of the bracing air, she hurried down the road, jogging a few paces until the woods were in sight. She'd told him not to go far. If she called his name, he'd hear her. He had to. 

"Warlock?" she called. Only the rustling branches answered her. Afraid that her voice had been trodden down by the wind, she tried again, louder. "Warlock! Where are you, sweetie?"

She took a few steps into the forest. She squinted, struggling to see through the heavy blanket of shadows. "Warlock!" she shouted hoarsely. She cried out, again and again, pacing along the tree-line with only her tears to warm her numb cheeks. Her neighbours were beginning to emerge, drawn by the commotion. She felt someone's hand on her shoulder. She didn't turn, unable to look away from the great black maw of the forest which had swallowed her son whole, without so much as a whisper. 

"Warlock... baby, please," she whimpered. Somewhere in the woods, a fairy ring slumbered in silence, the realm beyond deaf to her cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a change of pace for the next couple chapters, eh? Bet you didn’t see this one coming XD  
> Love you all <3


	9. Summer Holiday

"Ah! I see the bath has done you good," Aziraphale commented when he arrived at Warlock's door the next morning. He handed him a set of clothes before he had time to respond. "These should be about your size. I estimated."

He had a good eye, it seemed, because the clothes fit Warlock just about perfectly. Aziraphale had just shrunk down some of his own clothes slightly, since it was a bit early in the day to be bothering his tailor. He was a little disappointed when Warlock decided against wearing the bow tie and waistcoat. Despite that, he was happy with the fit.

"What a handsome young chap. You need a trip to the barber, though, I should think," he said, spotting the split ends riddling his hair. "Breakfast first, mind. Come along. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Warlock rolled his eyes. The Queen was a good-natured soul, but it was a bit hard to get a word in edgeways. He trailed him up to a small private dining room on the floor above, with a domed ceiling painted with stars. A pale, sharp-faced man slouched by the table, wearing glasses so dark Warlock wasn't sure if he was even awake. He lifted his head slightly as they entered, giving a lazy wave. Warlock gingerly returned it.

"Warlock, this is Crowley. He's a very dear friend of mine," he said, pulling out a chair for him at the breakfast table. 

He sat down, and Aziraphale poured each of them a cup of tea. He helped himself to the foods on offer, many of which he wasn't familiar with, but the Queen was more than happy to tell him. While he chattered enthusiastically about sourdough toast and gooseberry jam, Warlock kept sneaking glances at the quiet man to his left. He'd not spoken a word. He stood out starkly against the backdrop of frescoes painted across the walls of the dining room, and even more so beside the friendlier face of the Queen. He was glaringly different from everything around him, and even Warlock could see it. 

Eventually, there was a knock at the door. A short, round-faced man poked his head inside. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, sire," he drawled, eyeing the two interlopers with obvious surprise. Aziraphale rarely had guests for breakfast, and he'd never seen this child before... 

Aziraphale wiped the edges of his mouth to hide the way they curled downwards. "Aside from breakfast? No," he said with barely concealed resentment. He summoned up a smile. "Can I help you, Sandalphon?"

"There's been a mistake in some urgent paperwork. I would rectify it myself, but... it requires the royal seal," he said. 

He sighed, throwing down his napkin. "All right, then. You'll have to excuse me," he said, with an apologetic look at Crowley and Warlock. 

Crowley waved him off. "S'alright. I'll watch the boy," he said, sipping his tea. He hadn't touched any food since they'd sat down. 

"Thank you. I swear, one of these days, I will get some peace..." he said, half to himself, as he stood up. He left the room, touching Warlock lightly on the shoulder as he went. 

The human focused on his food, hoping to avoid eye contact with Crowley. He wasn't sure if he was being watched. At least with Aziraphale, you knew where you stood. He was expressive and animated, always moving, never quite able to sit completely still. But Crowley? He was as still as the grave. He only moved occasionally, to raise his teacup to his lips. If he knew that the silence was making Warlock uneasy, he didn't seem to care. Warlock wondered if he really wanted to be here at all, or if he was just under strict orders to supervise the human. He was no expert, but Crowley didn't _look_ like a mindless lackey, or even a fanatical devotee... 

"You're staring," he said, startling Warlock out of his thoughts. He ducked his head as he realised he was right, though he'd been sure Crowley was looking at the far wall. 

"Sorry," he said, looking back at his plate. "S'just... you're very different from him."

"Who, Aziraphale?" he said. He nodded. "Well, yeah. He's the Queen, for a start, I'm the Du - uuuh, not the Queen. He's Seelie and I'm not. That sort of thing. Makes a difference, y'know?"

"What's that mean?" he said. 

"Mh... It's complicated. You don't need to worry about it," he said, grimacing as the long Seelie-Unseelie feud flashed in his mind, two sub-species of fae eternally at loggerheads... "It just means that I don't really belong here."

"Like me," he said, the words tumbling from his lips before he really thought about them.

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, a slight smirk appearing on his face. "Yeah. Guess we're both out-of-place," he said. Warlock tried and failed to stifle a smile, now he didn't feel quite so alone anymore. "S'not so bad here, really. Aziraphale's all right. Adam and his friends, they'll look out for you. It'll just be... uh, like a summer holiday, only in winter." 

"I've never had a holiday before," he said, idly chewing on the crust of his toast. 

"Make the most of it, kid," he replied, finally reaching across to help himself to a piece of food. "It'll be the best damn winter you'll ever have."

Dawn spilt grey light over the village, but Harriet hadn't slept. A neighbour had been kind enough to share their firewood for the night while she searched the woods for her son, to no avail. Thaddeus, her husband, was too weak to venture out of the house. He was distraught. Some part of her was grateful that she hadn't been the one to fall ill, because she would've lost her mind at home knowing that her boy was out there somewhere, all alone. 

The one blessing she had was that now there was more food to go around, though she couldn't bear to think of her son as a burden. With the boost from those few extra mouthfuls, she struck out further into the woods with each day that passed. Other villagers pitched in where they could. The forest echoed with their cries for days. One by one, though, the voices began to drop off. People began to lose faith. Instead of crying Warlock's name, they kicked aside the undergrowth, looking for a flash of frostbitten skin upon the ground. No one was eager to find his body. 

Only Harriet continued to shout his name, her voice echoing in the indifferent winter. 

As promised, Aziraphale took Warlock for a haircut, and eventually had some clothes of his own made. They were very well-made, to a royal standard, which was just as well considering the rough-and-tumble games he played with the Them. Adam was ecstatic to have a human friend. He and Wensleydale were constantly plying him with questions, very few of which he could actually answer. Still, he seemed to get along well. He could hold his own in a game of tag, and that was all Pepper and Brian really cared about. 

"I think he's settled in quite nicely, don't you?" Aziraphale said, fondly watching Warlock hurry down the palace steps to meet the Them. 

Crowley hummed. "Yeah. He's a kid, they're adaptable little buggers," he said with a shrug. He caught the sly look Aziraphale was giving him from the corner of his eye. "What?"

"You're rather fond of him, aren't you?" he said, a knowing twinkle in his eye. 

He spluttered. "Wh - a - uh - ? Me?" he said, crossing his arms. "Yeah right. M'not fond of anyone. I'm a loner, me."

He rolled his eyes. "So you say. I saw you accept that flower crown at the feast all those weeks ago, Crowley," he said, turning to go back inside. "I've always said, deep down, you really are quite a nice Unseelie fairy."

Crowley set his jaw, glaring after him. He'd have slammed him into a wall for the comment, if he wasn't so sure the duty-guards would kill him for it. Shame. Aziraphale needed a reminder about who he really was, and if that just-so-happened to involve holding him flush against a wall, well... he'd put it down to a happy accident. 

He shook himself. "Ugh. Snap out of it, Crowley," he mumbled, moving to follow him. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was right: Crowley had become quite fond of Warlock. It wasn't his fault, though. Aziraphale was busy most of the day with his queenly business, which Crowley usually sat in on, but someone needed to keep a tab on where the human was. Most of his afternoons were now spent lounging someplace comfortable to watch while Warlock got up to mischief (usually cooked up by the both of them). His personal favourite was when they took the screws out of Gabriel's chair at the conference table. Being a bad influence was a special talent of his, after all, though Aziraphale tended to balance things out. 

Today, he sat in one of the trees in the gardens, one leg hanging down off the branch as he kept an eye on the children. The general public gave his tree a wide berth. He was a familiar sight around the city centre now, but his presence still made people skittish. He didn't mind. He only had a little while left before he got the all-clear to pass through the human realm and go home, so what did he care if they didn't like him? That gave him plenty of time to lounge in trees and doze the afternoon away, just so long as he didn't lose track of where the children had gone. 

Someone cleared their throat underneath him. He looked down. "Hm?" he said, reluctant to pull himself from his relaxation. 

Uriel crossed her arms. "Dullahan."

"What?" he said peevishly, sitting up slightly. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

She looked over to the Them, who were trying to teach Warlock a traditional festival dance, and rolled her eyes. "Of course. I forgot, you're the royal nanny now," she said. Crowley glared. "Tell me, how long do you expect this special treatment is going to last? For as long as you're obedient, or until the Queen gets over this new penchant for exotic pets?"

"Oh, for — what is it with you lot and this passive-aggressive shit?" he said, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You upset the status quo. You don't belong. You're an aberration."

"All right, yeah, I don't need the full list," he said waving her off. "What do you want?"

She went quiet, resentment bubbling over into her expression. "The Queen told me to fetch you and the human inside for lunch," she mumbled, looking away, though she could feel the arrogant grin stretched across Crowley's face. She startled as he landed heavily on the ground beside her. 

"I think nannies outrank messenger boys, don't you?" he said, skirting around her and calling out to the children. Warlock broke away from the group, waving over his shoulder, and coming to crash against Crowley's side. He lay a hand on his shoulder as they walked. 

"What's she looking at?" Warlock asked suspiciously, spotting the way Uriel stood glaring at them beneath the pear tree. 

"Hm? Oh, right. Don't worry about her," he said, barely turning his head to look back. "She's jealous 'cause she knows Aziraphale likes me better than her."

"Aziraphale told me he doesn't have favourites," he said in that know-it-all fashion which he'd picked up since coming here.

"Don't you listen to him," he said, giving him a playful shove as they mounted the steps up to the palace doors. "You listen to me."

Desperation had set in. Winter marched onward, blind to Harriet's grief, stubbornly refusing to return her son. Her friends murmured their apologies as they left the woods. They wouldn't be coming out again to search for him. They had their own land to tend, their own animals to keep alive, and their own children to look after. As soon as Thaddeus recovered enough to stand, he joined his wife to sweep the forest. One evening, stumbling home after another fruitless search, they saw a small figure stood by their front door. They wore a patchwork cloak of a hundred different colours, and fluffy rabbit-fur gloves. 

Harriet's lip curled. "What's she doing here..?" 

"Be nice, honey," Thaddeus said, his voice gruff and sore with fatigue. 

Seeing them approach, the woman smiled pityingly at them. Her frizzy red hair only stirred slightly in the wind. "Hello, Mr and Mrs Dowling," she said once they were within earshot. "I'm so sorry to hear about your boy..."

"He's just missing," she said sharply. 

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Would you mind coming back to my cottage with me for a few moments?" she said, nodding up the winding road. "Best not to talk out in the open like this and, well, you know how nosey neighbours can be..."

"Of course," Thaddeus said before his wife could refuse. Harriet kept her mouth shut, and followed along toward the cottage just beyond the village limits. She'd never liked that place. It gave off the oddest sense of otherworldliness, tucked nearly out of sight of the other houses. Tracy herself was usually called a 'wise woman', which in this village was just an affectionate term for a loopy old woman who meant well. Harriet was more inclined to call her a superstitious old bag.

Thaddeus and Harriet were stunned by the wave of heat as they stepped inside Tracy's isolated little home. The grimy windows blocked out the world beyond, leaving the room to be lit by the roaring fire which had blackened the stone hearth with soot. Even so, not a hint of smoke hung in the air. She shrugged off her multicoloured cloak by the door, inviting them to sit on one of the upturned logs she had around the room. Something was boiling in the hearth-pot, breathing out a cabbagey smell. A hunched-over figure sat in a rocking chair by the pot, with a shawl hanging low over her brow. They couldn't see her face. 

"Please, take a seat, don't be shy. This is Aggie. Elderly relative of mine," she said, looking expectantly at the other woman, who didn't so much as stir to look at the guests. Tracy huffed. "She's not a friendly soul, but she's awfully clever. Taught me everything I know."

"Not much, then," Harriet muttered under her breath, earning her a sharp glance from her husband. To her surprise, Aggie gave a low chuckle, though she still didn't turn to face them. 

"Oh, you would laugh at that, wouldn't you?" Tracy said, giving her a light swat on the shoulder as she sat down opposite the Dowlings. 

"What did you want to tell us, Tracy?" Thaddeus asked with a tired smile. Harriet crossed her arms and just tried to enjoy the warmth; her husband was the better diplomat, not her. 

She folded her hands in her lap. "Well, I just wanted to... to perhaps give you some answers. You aren't from around here, so I don't suppose you'd know the histories," she said with an almost wistful haze in her eyes. "About why children disappear in these woods."

Thaddeus put his arm around his wife, sensing the rising tide of her irritation. "We've heard some folk tales," he said. He had never entertained them, at least... not until recently, when he needed the hope. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea, to listen to what she had to say. 

"They're more than folk tales, Mr Dowling," she said, cautioning him. "They're memories, passed down from mother to daughter, father to son... if there's any left, of course."

"Cut the crap and tell us what you want so we can go home," Harriet snapped. Her nerves had been worn raw by the long nights spent without her boy, and she was in no mood for some old storyteller to waste her time. Aggie smirked slightly. 

Tracy's lips puckered, as if she'd eaten something especially sour. "All right then. Straight down to business," she said, adjusting her position. "Once, many years ago now, a child disappeared from the village right in the thick of winter. Just a little girl, hungry and unwell, not unlike your little boy. She'd gone to the woods to gather mushrooms, you see, and as luck would have it, she came across a ring of them. She thought all her birthdays had come at once but, well... There's an old superstition in this part of the world, that such places are doorways."

"To what?" asked Thaddeus.

"Somewhere Other. A place called Tír na nÓg," she said, her aged voice mingling with the crackling fire. "It's a world like ours, all around us. We just can't see it. It's home to a great number of realms, scattered across the whole world in different pockets, each with their own secret little borderlands with the human world. The one in these woods is home to a Seelie realm, a land of eternal summer."

Harriet leaned closer to her husband, trying not to roll her eyes at every word. It was rubbish. It sounded like exactly the kind of mythical paradise someone might dream up to explain death to a child, and she was not about to be caught up in it. 

Tracy glanced back at Aggie for a brief moment. "Their land is ruled by a pale, ageless fairy. They call him their Queen," she said with a soft chuckle. Thaddeus and Harriet shared an incredulous glance. "If your little boy is in Tír na nÓg, that's who he's with."

"If that's where he is, how do we find it?" Harriet said, motherly aggression rearing its ugly head. She was determined to tear this farce down as soon as she could. 

Tracy fixed her with a sad look. "No one finds the other world by looking for it," she said, with words coloured by bitter experience. 

She cried out in frustration, throwing off Thaddeus's arm as she stood up. "That's it. I've had it," she said, storming for the door. "I'm not about to sit here pretending like my baby is sitting on a toadstool somewhere with some magic man you just - just _made up!"_

Frigid air rushed inside as she threw open the door, leaving it swinging in the wind as she left. Thaddeus got up, hesitating for a moment to apologise, before rushing out after her. With a deep sigh, Tracy got to her feet, and softly closed the door behind them. She rested her forehead against it for a moment. A gale howled just beyond, rebuffed by the stone and wood holding her little world together, a safe haven outside the village. She'd not felt like she truly belonged there since she was a little girl, hungry and unwell, searching for mushrooms in the woods...

"He will return their boy, won't he?" she said, barely loud enough to carry over the bubbling broth on the hearth. 

"Time will tell," replied the fairy by the fire. Tracy turned with an acid scowl, stung by her careless attitude. 

"For Heaven's sake, didn't you see that poor woman?" she said shrilly. She tossed her shawl down onto the table sharply. "Can't you do something? Go back? He was your Queen, he listened to you!"

"And now, he listens to someone else,” she said wryly, as if it was nothing more than idle gossip. "Far more than he ever listened to me."

She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, coming over to stoke the fire. "Well if I could go back, I'd give him a right good telling-off, like he deserves. Keeping that poor woman in suspense all this time..." 

Agnes Nutter pushed back her shawl, finally revealing her handsome face to the firelight, as unchanged now as it had been a thousand years ago. "If there's one thing I will tell you, Tracy," she said with a knowing smirk. "It's that you'll get your chance to shout at him again, right enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is enjoying the tale, we’ll get back to much more Crowley/Aziraphale focused chapters soon (next time in fact). Looking forward to next week & thank you for all your comments <3


	10. Mother’s Love

Crowley had talked and talked and talked until finally, Aziraphale agreed to take the afternoon off. Crowley enjoyed looking after the children while he worked, but he missed the familiar presence of the Queen by his side. Well... that, and he didn't like the way Gabriel looked at Aziraphale, and the thought of him dealing with that alone made his lip curl. Aziraphale never smiled as much when he was trying to handle court politics. He looked almost defeated when that sleazebag was leaning over him. Crowley twitched every time he saw Gabriel lift his hand near the Queen, until he eventually snapped, feeling a powerful need to take him away from it all.

"Where on earth are you taking me?" Aziraphale said, following Crowley down the woodland trail while the kids played up ahead. 

"Don't worry about it. You'll see," he replied, clambering over a large fallen tree over the path. He offered his arm to Aziraphale without even thinking, which he gratefully took as he stepped over the crumbling log. 

The bark beneath his foot buckled. He slipped, and saw the ground hurtling up to meet him with a strangled cry. It stopped abruptly. He stood there for a moment, wide-eyed, until he registered the feeling of Crowley's arm holding him flush against his side. Crowley seemed just as stunned as he was.

"Uh. You all right?" he asked, inexplicably reluctant to let him go. He'd not realised how soft Aziraphale felt, not until now, not until fate had tossed him a golden opportunity - or rather, a rotten log - to hold him like this. An idea flashed through his mind; the idea to lean down and steal a kiss from those soft, slightly parted lips. A kiss from a Queen, and such a lovely one too... He frantically banished that thought. It was a stupid one, anyway.

He nodded hesitantly. "Yes, I believe so," he said, wriggling slightly. It took Crowley a moment to realise that he wanted to get free. 

He cleared his throat, quickly taking his arm away and stumbling backward. "Right, good," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and picking up the pace again. He burned with shame. He'd only gone and made him uncomfortable... He could see the way Aziraphale kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye, the pink in his cheeks, and the awkward silence that lingered between them. He kept his head down and kept walking. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of this whole palling-around-with-royalty thing, he had to go and put his foot in it again, didn't he? 

The Them were waiting for them at the crossroads, where Crowley took a sharp left down a little-used path, hurrying up ahead. Warlock fell in beside Aziraphale, showing him the sparkly pebble he'd found on the path. Brian claimed that he'd seen it first, but Adam had overruled him. "You're bossier than Aziraphale, you are, and he's s'posed to be in charge!" Brian complained, giving him a playful shove, which was quickly returned before they descended into laughter. 

While they were play-fighting, Aziraphale felt a tug on his sleeve. "Yes, Warlock?" he said.

"How long is it until spring?" he said quietly. Aziraphale blinked, lips parted in surprise. 

"Erm... not long, I suppose," he said, casting his gaze up to the sunlight filtering through the broad leaves overhead. "Why the sudden interest?"

He shrugged, looking down at his feet. "I miss my parents," he said, with an edge to his voice, as if he were ashamed of even saying it. "But... I like it here, too, and sometimes when I think about going back, it — it just scares me. Is that bad? Does that make me a bad person?"

"Oh, no, of course not," he said, a pang of guilt running through his own heart, too. He glanced at Crowley on the path up ahead, who appeared to be having some sort of bickering match with Pepper. 

"I want to see my parents, but — but I know I'll miss you, when I leave, and Crowley and Adam and everyone," he continued, growing more distressed by the second. This had clearly been weighing on him for some time. "I don't know what I should feel. It's like I'm being pulled in two directions at once."

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek anxiously. He didn't have the right words to comfort him, because he was right. He didn't belong here, but when he went back, he would never be truly sure he belonged there either. He'd always be a child of two worlds. Aziraphale had known that from the moment he decided to keep him here, though he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. Warlock had put on weight since he first arrived, and he was finally clean and well-dressed. He was healthy, safe, and sheltered. Aziraphale felt torn, too. Not so long ago, he'd cared for a different human child in his court, and he'd decided to let her go back in the end. Not a day went by when he didn't wonder what became of her; if she was happy, if she'd lived to adulthood, if she even remembered the funny man who lived in the tree from that one warm winter, so many moons ago... 

Aziraphale gently laid a hand on his back. "Go play with the others, my dear," he said softly. "Best not to dwell on such things for too long."

He nodded, happy to drop the matter, and rushed up the path. Soon, they arrived in Crowley's secret spot, which he'd found during one of his rambles when Aziraphale really was too busy for joking around. It was a broad open shoreline beside a lake, one which Aziraphale had forgotten all about, even if it wasn't all that far from the city. He breathed in the clean air, coming to stand beside the dark-clad fairy on the edge of the pebble beach. He looked at him for a long moment and, for an instant, Aziraphale worried that he could see the conflict playing out in his head. 

"Nice view, isn't it?" Crowley said after a long pause, nodding at the serene expanse of water and the sprawl of green trees and wildflowers on the far shore. Aziraphale nodded.

"Very."

Crowley led him over to a nice sheltered spot, under the boughs of an oak, where the sun's glare off the waves wouldn't seem so aggressive. There were two conveniently-placed flat boulders there, because Crowley always expected to find a decent place to sit somewhere like this. They settled there in the shade while the children shouted in joy and plunged into the shallows. Pepper, Warlock and Brian were having a water fight which escalated into full-scale war, while Wensleydale and Adam poked around by the shore in search of interesting aquatic life. Dog was just happy to be involved. 

Crowley drew his knee up to his chest, letting his other leg hang down off the rock. Aziraphale was oddly quiet. He was preoccupied, staring across the gently undulating water, occasionally letting a smile flicker across his lips when one of the children shrieked with laughter. A light breeze stirred his blond curls, catching Crowley's eye. He looked over hesitantly, only daring to admire him properly once he was certain he wasn't looking. His eyes traced over the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, the pensive crinkle in his brow... 

It amazed him that Aziraphale had agreed to come out all this way, far from his heavily guarded citadel, alone, to an unknown location in the woods. Crowley wasn't used to that. He wasn't used to being trusted. Most people thought that if the Dullahan asked you to follow him, you wouldn't ever see home again. It wasn't very fair on him, really, because _he_ didn't actually kill any of the souls he guided to the other side. He was just that: a guide. He was only trying to offer an easier passage to the other side, some way over that wouldn’t seem so isolated, so achingly final... He couldn't imagine anything more terrible than having to make that journey alone, to the gates which sat eternally on the distant horizon. He'd seen them too many times. He'd heard the bell that chimed just beyond, calling some poor sod to cross over. He'd even caught flashes of what lay on the other side. He tried not to look anymore, whenever he'd approached them. He dreaded the day that bell would chime for him, too, calling him to cross the gate at long last, after so many years of turning back right on the threshold. 

He didn't realise how far his mind had drifted until Aziraphale waved his hand in front of his face, his brow knitted with concern. "Crowley? Are you all right? You've gone terribly pale," he said, pressing the back of his hand lightly to his forehead. 

Crowley flinched back, shaking his head to clear the hollow look from his eyes. "M'fine," he said. "Just... thinking."

"About what?" he said. Crowley was about to make a biting remark, but faltered when he saw the soft, worried look in those eyes. He couldn't say no to that. 

"All sorts. Don't worry about it," he said, bringing a smile to his lips in an attempt to chase away the concern clouding Aziraphale's expression. "Come on, this is your afternoon off. Stop thinking so hard."

"But - "

"Not listening. It's R and R time now," he said stubbornly, leaning back against the stone with his hands behind his head. To his relief, Aziraphale relented, even lying down beside him with his hands folded neatly on his belly. They lay side by side for some time, taking in the tranquil air, grounding one another firmly in the here and now. Listening to Aziraphale's steady breathing, rhythmic and constant and fantastically _alive_ , he could put those looming gates out of his head. With Crowley there to make him lie down in the first place, Aziraphale began to relax. It wasn't to last, though. 

"Crowley!" Pepper shouted. He grunted as she scrambled onto his rock, giving him a light shove to wake him up. He lifted his head.

"Whuh?"

"Warlock doesn't believe that you have a spine whip," she said, crossing her arms. It took Crowley a moment to realise what she was talking about. 

"Oh, this?" he said, lifting up his back slightly, reaching behind it to draw the whip from the thin air underneath. Warlock gawked. 

"That's so cool!" he said, rushing up beside the very smug Pepper, looking closely at the weapon. The handle was fashioned from a tibia, and the articulated body of the whip began with broad, bulky vertebrae, which got progressively smaller in size until the very last one was around as thick as his finger. 

"It can change size, too, if I need it to," he said, subtly boasting, rolling his wrist to make the whip oscillate in an almost snake-like fashion. Dog watched the tip flick back and forth intently, mesmerised. He glanced to his side, noting the way Aziraphale sat up, intrigued by the unusual weapon. A wicked grin overcame his face. "Hey, Pepper. Grab a pebble, and follow me."

He pushed himself up, half-jogging over to the shore with the kids at his heel. He glanced over his shoulder. Aziraphale had shuffled forward to sit on the edge of his boulder, head tilted to the side in a way Crowley couldn't help but call adorable. "Right, Pep. Throw the stone, as hard and as high as you can, on my word. Ready?" he said, rolling his shoulder. Pepper stood poised. "Now!"

She flung the rock into the air with impressive strength, and possibly a little burst of magic. It arched high over the lake, spinning wildly, reaching the apex of its climb before — 

_CRACK_

The stone shattered, scattering fragments harmlessly into the lake. The whip landed beside Crowley again, scattering gravel from the shore as the Them gasped and hollered in amazement. Applause sounded from behind. He turned, seeing Aziraphale clapping enthusiastically. 

"Bravo, Crowley!" he said, beaming. Crowley puffed out his chest, feeling _extremely_ pleased with himself. Adam rolled his eyes. 

"C'mere, angel," Crowley called, beckoning him over. "That's not the only trick up my sleeve, y'know."

A little flustered, he made his way over, joining the audience of children at a safe distance. The next few minutes were full of oohs and aaahs, with especially delighted applause from Aziraphale, as Crowley showcased his skills. He struck an apple perfectly in half from twelve feet*, carved ABC into a tree trunk from a similar distance, and frightened the hell out of a passing pigeon. The latter was a bit of an accident. Still, he played it off as intentional, and proudly presented the tailfeather he'd plucked to Aziraphale. 

*He'd initially asked for a volunteer to place it on their head, but Aziraphale had vetoed that very quickly. It would've been fine, though. Probably. 

"That was rather mean, dear, and I don't approve at all," he said chidingly, despite the fact that he tucked the feather into his interior pocket with every intention of keeping it. Crowley smiled, smug in the knowledge that he was impressed no matter how hard he was trying to hide it.

"I thought it was pretty cool. Right, kids?" he said, looking at his other adoring fans. They nodded and laughed, with a chorus of agreements. 

"Little turncoats, the lot of you," Aziraphale said with a small tsk. He glanced skyward, at the steady progression of the sun, with a reluctant sigh. "We had better be going home soon. The day's getting on a bit."

"Aw, what?" Adam complained. "But we've hardly done anything. I bet Crowley's got loads more tricks to show us anyway, hasn't he?"

All eyes turned to him. Crowley froze up, glancing between Aziraphale's stern, expectant gaze, and the children's hopeful doe-eyes stares. "Uh. I... I do have one more trick," he said hesitantly, aiming for a compromise. Aziraphale was stuck between exasperation and curiosity. "Just - stand back, okay? Way back. Over there."

He shooed them back underneath the tree where Aziraphale had originally been sat. The Queen did a count of the children, and Dog, just to be sure they were all present and correct. This sounded like it could get dangerous, and if he was as responsible as he liked to imagine, he'd call the whole thing off. But... what was he doing? He frowned, watching Crowley drag a log onto the beach, positioning it lengthways. He stood well back, flashing a smile over his shoulder at them. Aziraphale double-checked that none of the children had wandered off before he dared commit to watching the events unfold... 

Crowley adjusted his grip on the handle, judging the distance carefully. Slowly at first, and then all at once, he swept his arm in a wide arc over his head. The whip struck the ground behind him, striking sparks against the stone. Aziraphale gasped. Fire spat, igniting with a rush of heat along the entire length of the whip, before Crowley flicked his wrist again. It roared through the air. It came down sharply, splitting the log in two with a burst of flame and the hiss of splintering, smouldering wood which sent the two ruined halves spinning wildly in opposite directions. The shock stole Aziraphale's breath, his wide eyes drinking in the sight before him: Crowley, framed by the smoke and heat-rippled air, half-poised as he drew his weapon back toward him, his face still dark and intense with concentration. His heart fluttered. He resisted the urge to bite his lip, shamefully aware of how arousing he found that power and precision.

His blush deepened when Crowley straightened up, looking over to see his reaction. The children sat in stunned silence, stupid grins plastered all over their faces, while Aziraphale wrestled with the urge to swoon behind them. The flames along the whip quickly died down as Crowley gathered it back into a loop, coming over to them. "Not bad, eh?" he said, a little self-conscious, unnerved by the silence. 

"That... was awesome," said Pepper, looking up at him with new respect. 

"It was pretty incredible," Wensley agreed, and the other boys nodded along with great enthusiasm. All eyes turned expectantly toward the Queen. "Wouldn't you say, Aziraphale?"

He cleared his throat, smoothing down imaginary creases in his lapels as he chased blindly after his composure. "Remarkable, yes," he said, sliding down off the boulder. His eyes flicked nervously toward Crowley, then away again. "Ahem. We'd best scoot off back home, shan't we? Your mothers will have my head if you're late for tea."

He scurried past them, barely catching the flash of sorrow on Warlock's face. He cursed his choice of words, recalling his homesickness. The others followed him into the woods and, like usual, the children ran ahead. Dog was at the head of the pack this time, barking at every bird he saw. Crowley fell in beside Aziraphale, with that bloody whip coiled up, hanging from his belt. Aziraphale eyed it bitterly for a moment. It had broken down his royal dignity far too quickly for his liking, replacing it with that embarrassing lust that was very inappropriate between friends. 

"Something's been bothering you since we got here. What is it?" he said in a low voice. Aziraphale ducked his head slightly, shamefully avoiding his gaze. Crowley watched closely, his guarded expression softening a little in worry. "Is it something I did?"

"No!" he cried, alarmed by the mere suggestion. "Not at all. It's — "

He stopped himself, almost spilling his worries without thinking. His eyes betrayed him. Crowley followed his gaze up the path, landing on the heart of the problem. "Oh. Warlock," he said. Aziraphale's silence spoke for itself, and Crowley sighed sympathetically. "He can't stay here forever, angel. You know that."

"It's not unheard of," he said, testing the waters. He couldn't have this conversation with anyone else. Any other courtier would flippantly tell him to just keep the human if he wanted to; Crowley was the only one who wouldn't treat the matter as trivial. He was the only one who understood the value of humanity. 

"You'd break his mother's heart," he said, holding aside a stray tree branch to let him pass. 

"Hardly. I could send a changeling back in his place," he said, feeling the weight of his judgemental stare following him closely. "They aren't hard to make. Just a few twigs, some clay, a sprinkling of fairy dust..."

"You're not giving that poor woman a clay doll instead of her son," he said firmly. "Give the boy back, like you said you would. The first day of spring is less than a week away."

He let out a pained noise. "But — But it's all gone by so fast, I hardly feel like I've had him for a day," he said. He was all but begging him to just say yes, to clear his conscience and assure him that it wouldn't be wrong to raise Warlock as his own. That’s all he wanted. It’s what he’d wanted from the start, if he was honest with himself.

"He's mortal. His whole life will go by too fast," he pointed out, his voice as familiar as the scent of home, even as his words stung. He softened when he saw the dampness building in Aziraphale's eyes. "I know you love him, angel, but he's not yours to keep. He has a family out there. He has to go back." 

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, you're right," he whispered, blinking back his emotions as he looked at the gaggle of children he adored so much. He'd never had a family of his own. On his first day of life, he'd simply woken up beneath a blossom sapling, already fully formed and utterly, utterly alone. Everything he had, he'd had to build for himself. His tree - the house of his very soul - had grown into a proud symbol for his realm, and many Seelie fae had come to live under its guiding, protective warmth over his long reign. He had made it all happen, he'd come so far, but there was still one gap he could not fill alone. He looked down, suppressing the urge to press his hands longingly against his belly...

Hope had begun to slip through Harriet's fingers as spring edged closer. Frost no longer coated the ground, though the earth was still frozen solid underfoot. Nights still arrived early. She knew that Thaddeus had started to make funeral plans behind her back. Try as she might, she could no longer summon up the grit to be angry at him. At heart, she understood. Warlock had vanished at the height of the bitterest winter for decades, already feeble. Maybe he'd been weaker than she'd thought. Maybe he'd collapsed somewhere in the wilds, someplace where only the carrion crows would find him, once the warmer days returned to thaw his body. She and Thaddeus still went looking for him, though, every night. It was more like a habit than a hope. 

Yesterday, they had only ventured a few paces into the woods, brushing aside the undergrowth as if they might find him there, lying right under their noses all along. Now, dusk had come and gone again already, leaving the village in that dull, endless silence that she'd grown to hate. Thaddeus set aside his empty dinner bowl, thanking her for the meal. She had no memory of responding. She stared into the embers of the fire, vacant. 

"Are... Are we going out again tonight?" Thaddeus asked. 

She turned her head slightly. "Why?"

The question hung like smoke in the air, thick and heavy and borne from the scorched ruins of a life already passed. "It's Spring tomorrow," he said. "It'll be a time for new beginnings."

"And you want to stop," she said coldly. "You're sick of searching for him. You'd have stopped weeks ago if not for me."

"I don't want to give up hope, Harriet, I just... how long is this going to go on for?" he said, his voice wavering with the strain of grief. "We have to move on. We're only torturing ourselves, searching for — for something to bury."

"Fine. Stay at home," she said, standing up and snatching her shawl from the table. He reached toward her, only for her to draw back with a scornful cry. "Get _away_ from me!"

She flung open the door, letting the night envelop her as she stormed down the village road. The wind rushed through her, sweeping her hair back into dark waves that merged with the black air. She could walk this path with her eyes closed by now. She knew every pothole, every stone, every root in the ground on the way to the woods. It was barren, bare dirt, unclothed by life of any kind. The village swarmed with life during the summer months, but not now, not when the rain had frozen into sheets of ice upon the earth before it even had a chance to soak in. That was somewhat fitting, to her. The irony of a beautiful day while her son was missing would drive her mad, as if nature itself were mocking her. 

She was quite satisfied with the murky tableau ahead of her: the distant face of the forest, where a curtain of darkness was suspended between the trunks, and the tops of the branches carved a rugged horizon. There was no moon tonight; the realisation stopped her in her tracks. She glanced skyward, to be sure she was right. The only source of light was the stars, barely enough to see by... So what was that flicker by the tree-line? Squinting, she crept forward, her heart rate beginning to pick up. There was something moving between the tree trunks, she was certain of it. Her breath caught. 

Someone was there. Half-concealed behind a tree, a hazy shape peered out toward the village. The figure gave off a distinct white luminescence, like a beacon amid the shadowy expanse of the forest. Their face was impossible to make out at this distance.

"H... Hello?" she called. The pale creature didn't respond; it just watched. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she ought to go back rather than face this stranger alone. The silence was unnerving. Hesitating, she looked back, and fear struck her again. 

The figure had emerged from behind the tree. It was man-shaped — some deep primordial instinct told her that this was not truly a man — pale, and deafeningly silent. It stared at her. She froze, fearful of turning to run, in case it followed. A new conclusion of horror wracked her as she wondered if... if _this_ was the reason her son had never come home. There was something or someone in the woods that she hadn’t even known about. Was this what he’d seen? Was it back, hoping for another? It stood, watching. They stopped there in an eerie standoff, with only a long stretch of open ground now separating them. Harriet stared at the figure: perfectly still, stood tall with its white coat swaying a little in the breeze. A memory tickled the back of her mind, of something Tracy had said.

_A pale, ageless fairy... They call him their Queen._

Her heart stuttering, she took a step forward. He didn't move. He didn't disintegrate like the senseless hallucinations of a febrile mind. She took another step, and another, until she was jogging across the ground toward him. More and more details began to emerge as she drew nearer: a brown waistcoat, white hair... He turned, plunging into the forest before she could make out his features. Rage surged through her. He didn't get to mock her like this, to stare her right in the face and then vanish again into thin air. If he was real, that meant...

_If your little boy is in Tír na nÓg, that's who he's with._

The cold air raked its claws down her throat as she broke into a sprint, determined not to lose sight of the fairy. She passed the tree-line, over the spot where it had stood, the hard earth sending jolts up her body with every stride. She could still see him. He wove through the trees, and the tangle of brambles seem to part before him as he ran. The absurdity hardly reached Harriet's mind. This _thing_ had taken her son, and now he had the gall to taunt her. Ferocious insults flooded her mind. She leapt clean over the logs and bushes, trying to predict his movements and head him off somehow. He was clever, though, and far faster. She never even got within six feet. 

He veered off sharply, his white coat-tails flapping behind him. Harriet gasped, trying to turn, when her ankle buckled. Momentum sent her crashing to the ground with a sharp cry as pain lanced up her leg. Without hesitating, she shifted her weight, lurching forward on all fours in an attempt to get back to her feet on the run. She caught a flash of a white coat ahead, disappearing into the shadows. Searing pain clamped its jaws around her ankle, bringing her down again. Her breathing laboured. Silence was closing in, the sound of the fairy's footfalls now long gone. With a desperate shriek, she forced herself to her feet, leaning heavily on a tree trunk and staring wildly in every direction. 

Darkness. Darkness on every side, motionless save for the wind disturbing the branches. The fairy was gone. She gulped down the air, feeling the familiar heat of tears spilling down her cheeks. She shook her head. "No. No, no, no, please," she said, tilting her head up to the star-freckled sky peering down at her through the canopy. She sobbed. "He...He can't be gone. Not my baby. Not Warlock, _please..._ "

She shut her eyes, letting the tree take her weight. Her weak knees and throbbing ankle certainly couldn't. This couldn't be how it ended. She cried without thinking, without knowing how long it had been, feeling as if she had failed her son for a second time. She’d been offered a chance to get him back, and she’d let it escape. 

A twig snapped. Her eyes snapped open instinctively, her nerves still raw with adrenaline. Through the blur of tears, a pale smudge had appeared in the dark. She hiccoughed, rubbing her eyes clear. Her jaw dropped. The fairy had come back, once again standing just far enough away that she couldn't quite see his face. Stunned, she found herself rooted to the spot. He seemed... anxious, this time. If she squinted, she could've sworn she saw him nervously wringing his hands together, peering curiously toward her. Did... Did he know she was hurt? 

She limped forward experimentally, using tree trunks to ease the strain. He waited until she'd taken a few steps before turning around and beginning to walk through the forest at a steady pace. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder. She suspected he even slowed down a little, when he noticed she was flagging. He didn’t want to lose her. Finally, his true intentions fell into place.

"You want to show me something," she whispered, watching the strange entity with a new sense of wonder. 

She didn't know how long she walked for. There was no moon in the sky to judge the time, and the fae quickly became her only guiding lantern as the tree branches became too thick to admit the starlight. Eventually, the fairy halted, turning to face her again. She stopped. He'd made it very clear that she wasn't allowed any closer than this; far enough that she never saw his red-rimmed eyes, or the remorseful downturn in his lips, and far enough that he would never have to face the grief he'd caused. He remained stock still, waiting. She frowned, opening her mouth to call out to him, when she did exactly what he'd been waiting for. 

She blinked. 

He was gone. Her heart bucked, hammering against her ribs. "Wait! Where did you go?" she cried, twisting around to look for him. He was nowhere to be seen. For a soul-wrenching moment, she wondered if she really had been chasing a hallucination all this time. There had never been any fairy Queen guiding her through the woods. There had never been — 

"Mama?"

She stopped breathing. "Warlock?" she said, stumbling forwards. There was a flicker of movement between the trees, and a small figure pushed through the undergrowth. "Warlock!"

"Mama!" he shrieked, throwing himself into her arms. She collapsed into the dirt, hugging him so tightly to her chest that even she couldn't breathe. She choked on tears of relief as she pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. 

"You're alive," she said, a smile stretching her face for the first time since the cold midwinter night he'd vanished. She looked over him, noticing the way he'd filled out beneath his clothes, which were not the ones he’d disappeared in, and the total lack of grime clinging to his face. The faint scent of summer flowers rolled off him. "And you're... different."

He laughed sheepishly. "Yeah. I've had a... a really strange winter," he said, a flicker of melancholy passing over his face as he glanced down at the circle of mushrooms on the ground around them. Harriet gulped, remembering Tracy’s tale about the gateways between worlds. She’d pay more heed to her in future. 

"Well, you can tell me and papa all about it at home, by the fire," she said, perturbed, though trying to push it down. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the fairy who’d led her here now. "How's that?"

"Sounds amazing," he said, as if a great weight had been lifted. His human house was not as grand, or rich, or vast as the palace, but nothing could replace the comforts of the home he was raised in. 

He took his mother's hand, and began the steady walk home. Although he supposed he must have come this way, all that time ago, the woods rapidly became wild and unfamiliar to him. He had no memory of being here before. As the first chill breeze of spring swept across his face, he realised that he wouldn't ever find his way back to this place, if he came looking for it. He'd made his choice. He wouldn't be going back to the Seelie realm again. With a pang of sorrow that was destined to echo for the rest of his life, he glanced over his shoulder just before the forest closed around the fairy ring. 

A pale figure stood in the distance, waving goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I done it? Are you crying yet? (Oops)
> 
> Stay tuned for some more idiots in love next time, love you all, hope you’re having as much fun as I am with this :)


	11. He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Crowley sat on the steps of the throne, which he'd been assured were entirely safe and un-cursed, during that slow afternoon at court. Aziraphale would have offered him a chair, but that really would look too much like favouritism, to offer him a seat beside the throne. 

No one had many problems today, it seemed. They had the odd visit from a blacksmith or other such businessman, but for the most part, the courtiers were the ones approaching the throne. Sandalphon was the first. He smiled greasily at Crowley, who looked back hoping to share an eye-roll with Aziraphale... He seemed preoccupied, though. He fidgeted in his seat as he approached. 

"Sire," Sandalphon said, bowing low. "I present to you, a gift."

Aziraphale watched uncomfortably as Sandalphon placed a neatly wrapped box on one of the steps. "Thank you, Sandalphon," he said, already waving him off. "Much appreciated."

Crowley watched him go, a crease in his brow. "Huh. Well that was a thing," he muttered. Usually, he could just about puzzle out why Gabriel and his little clique did what they did, but that was just... bizarre. Why did Aziraphale look so uncomfortable about it, too? As far as he could see, it was just a nice, if odd, gesture. 

He didn't ask. Aziraphale was still upset over Warlock, and maybe his emotionally obtuse courtiers had finally started to pick up on it. At least, that's what he thought, until Michael approached the throne and submitted a gift, too. Then, someone else laid one at his feet. The presents kept coming thick and fast, and to his surprise, even Gabriel brought one over. His was the most extravagant: a large, white-and-purple bouquet, a bottle of wine and a box which, though small, clearly housed something hideously expensive. Crowley itched with curiosity. Was there something special about today? Had he missed a memo? 

He sensed Aziraphale's discomfort even as they left the throne room together. "What was all that about?" he said, nodding backward toward the doors. The court was still filtering out into the hall, lingering by the doors. 

"What?" he said, distracted and just coming back to himself. 

"The presents. Is it your creation-day or something?" he said, guessing hesitantly. "Should I have...? You know, contributed?"

Aziraphale flushed pink. "Oh, no, that really won't be necessary. Um," he said, pausing for a moment. Crowley waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. "Er, it's not my creation-day. It's... it's tradition to give gifts at springtime, to... express one's interest in somebody."

Crowley nodded slowly, understanding. Then, his mind began to put the implications together. He couldn't suppress a sharp bark of laughter. "What, you mean - ? Even Sandalphon? Really?"

Alarmed, Aziraphale flapped his hands, glancing down at the lingering courtiers. "Crowley! Keep your voice down!" he hissed. Sandalphon had heard his comment. Aziraphale gave a strained smile, waving politely in an attempt to smooth things over even as Crowley descended into even louder cackles.

"Oh, come on, angel. That's rich," he said between chuckles, his voice carrying easily. Sandalphon glared fiercely down the hall while his rivals snickered behind his back. "He’s punching above his weight a bit, don’t you think?"

"For Heaven's sake, if you can't hold your tongue, at least wait until nobody can hear you!" he said, taking him by the arm and hurrying him down the hall and out of sight as fast as he could at a dignified pace. 

Crowley was eventually bundled into the drawing room. It was a cosy hemispherical room with a fireplace against the flat wall, where a smokeless orange fire burned without any wood or kindling; a fae flame. He guessed that was probably sensible. A real fire in a Queen's sacred tree would be a very bad idea indeed. Still, it warmed the room, casting it in an array of warm and welcoming colours. He threw himself down onto the plush velvet sofa, still grinning. 

"So... spring is the season of love in this realm, is it?" he said sardonically. 

"Don't be so quick to scorn," he said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the door. "Spring romances have marked the start of many a happy union, I'll have you know."

He snorted, rolling his eyes, before the subtext caught up to him. He sat up, an unexplained clenching in his chest. "Wait. You're not taking them seriously, are you?" he said. 

He pouted. "Why not?" he said, aimlessly rearranging the stacks of books littered about the room. "I have to marry eventually, you know."

"Since when?" he said, twisting around to watch him flitting about the room. 

"Since the day I was created," he said sharply. "If I have no heirs, then — "

"Oh, bugger that," he said, waving his hand dismissively and throwing himself back to lie across the sofa. "That's not a reason to get married. You don't need a ring on your finger to be able to f — "

"Yes, I quite understand that!" he interrupted loudly. He sighed in exasperation. "But it's frowned upon."

"Yeah? And? You're the Queen."

"Exactly," he said, with a deep-rooted bitterness in his tone. Crowley daren't lift his head to peer over the back of the sofa, knowing that he certainly wouldn't see that bright smile that he lov — er, liked so much. "Change the subject, please."

He hummed in acceptance. "... I'm curious what that lot think is going to impress you."

A mischievous tone crept into Aziraphale's voice. "Shall I have the gifts brought here?"

"Go on then," he replied with a grin. 

They spread the presents out on the low coffee table, and bolted the door. "Just a precaution," Aziraphale reassured him before he came to sit back down. "Spring gift-giving is supposed to be a private affair, you see. I'd rather no one find out about this."

Crowley mimed zipping his lips shut. Together, they began to pick apart his haul. There were plenty of tacky jewellery-shop-window gifts, the type that Crowley has no qualms about holding up to the light and criticising. "There's a flaw in this gem. See it?" he said, resting his shoulder against Aziraphale's to show him. "Small, but you'll never un-see it once you've noticed."

"Yes, I see what you mean," he said. They didn't move apart again after that, though neither addressed it. 

Crowley provided very stern quality control for every gift. "These chocolates aren't tempered correctly," he said, casting a judgemental eye over the box. Aziraphale did agree, but it wouldn't stop him from enjoying them while listening to Crowley decry every other gift in the stash. Though he wouldn't admit it, there was something deeply satisfying about reclining on his sofa and watching him reject each suitor's offering on his behalf. 

"That wine's less than a decade old, expensive label or not. Don't bother saving it for anything special," Crowley continued, setting the bottle down by the table leg to be forgotten. He jabbed a finger accusingly at another one across the table. "And that one's been corked, I wouldn't even touch that. God knows what they've done to it. I can smell it from here."

"You must have a very keen nose," he said, popping another truffle into his mouth. Crowley shrugged, still unwilling to admit to his snake-form. Aziraphale, and his people too, had some sort of deep anxiety attached to that serpent prophecy he'd recounted months ago beneath the fountain, and he daren't ask why. He pressed on dismantling the horde. 

"Leaf spots!" was his only comment on one poor bouquet before he tossed it onto the rubbish pile. Aziraphale gave an amused eye-roll. 

The last parcel he reached for was the expensive-looking one from Gabriel. He turned it over in his hands, shaking it lightly. Aziraphale was looking down at the chocolates, agonising over which one he would eat next, not paying attention. Crowley watched him for a second. He looked back down at Gabriel's gift, silently hoping for something he could ridicule mercilessly. He tugged at the purple bow on the box, and lifted the lid... It was a bangle, made from curled, highly polished wood and set with glittering deep yellow diamonds. His lip curled. _Dammit, the man actually has taste,_ he thought spitefully as he lifted it free, tossing the box carelessly aside. He squinted at the gemstones, hoping to find a fault. Nothing. They were nicely cut, catching the light attractively at every angle, and perfectly uniform all the way around. He felt Aziraphale peeking over his shoulder. 

"My, that is lovely. Who was it from?" he said. 

"Er," he said, with a fleeting glance at the discarded box. It was lost amongst the rest of the wrapping paper and packaging which they'd already tossed aside. If he really was taking these seriously, a gift like this could begin to tip the scales in Gabriel’s favour... The lie crossed his lips before he even thought about it. "Dunno. Didn't check."

"Pity," he said, gently taking the bracelet from his hand and slipping it onto his wrist. Crowley swallowed hard, biting back a scowl. "What do you think?"

"Bit much for everyday wearing," he said, wrinkling his nose dismissively. His gut twisted to think of Gabriel spotting it on Aziraphale’s wrist.

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, I think you're right," he said, taking it off and setting it aside. Crowley sighed in relief. "Care to taste the wine?"

"May as well," he said, picking up one of the nicer bottles that had been left by the throne. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, conjuring two crystal glasses. "Huh. Neat trick."

"Not one I make a habit of," he said, setting them down while Crowley poured them each a drink. Aziraphale shut his eyes, just for a moment, breathing in the deep comfort around him. The sound of wine flowing, the crackle of the fire, the faint scent of Crowley's cologne drifting over while the taste of chocolate lingered on his tongue... 

He had honestly intended only to have a little taste. But the drawing room was so snug, and Crowley's voice became more irresistible with every mouthful of wine. "Tempt you to another glass, angel?" he said with that smile, oh, that smile... Aziraphale gratefully held out his glass for more. 

He quickly fell into a haze of pleasant drunkenness. Crowley was never far behind. The longer they stayed on that little island of simplicity in a sea of things beyond their control, the better. He couldn't recall the last time he saw Aziraphale's face so carefree, so soft, without a single worry to wrinkle his brow. He couldn't help but think he must have been made for this sort of light, which dusted his alabaster skin in a dawn-glow orange and softened the shadows under his jaw. Aziraphale noticed him staring. The wine gave him the courage to hold that sky-blue gaze. They still sat shoulder to shoulder, and it would be the easiest thing in the world, to lean down and close the space between their lips. Crowley was grateful for his sunglasses, which hid the way his narrow pupils blew wide.

"The twenty-first of October," Aziraphale mumbled, breaking the tension. The moment was gone. "Almost six thousand years ago."

"Whuh?" Crowley said, wondering if he'd missed the first half of that sentence. 

"My creation-day. You asked about it earlier," he said. Crowley nodded vaguely, entranced by the proximity between them. He leaned back against the sofa, watching the Queen from a slightly safer distance. 

"A Summer Queen, born in Autumn?" he said, scratching his neck. "Bit odd."

He smiled vaguely, a sheen of memories forming over his eyes. "Yes, it was. My very first memory of life is seeing those lovely red leaves on the trees, all around me, just the same shade as your hair," he said, gesturing around vaguely at Crowley's head with a loving look in his eye that Crowley had to assume was meant for the memory of the leaves. "They all turned green by the end of the week, and I've never seen them since. Must've realised I was there. Pity..."

"Ehhh, you're not missing out," he said, shaking his head. "Autumn's cold. Rains a lot. Good weather for the - the um - pond... birds..."

"Ducks."

"Ducks!" he cried, waving an arm wildly in realisation. "Those're the buggers..."

"What about you?" Aziraphale asked, leaning on the back of the sofa to watch him. Crowley had never seen his posture so lax. No one had. "What's the first thing you remember?"

It flashed behind Crowley's eyes in an instant. His jaw tightened. "Falling," he said, looking down into his wine glass, going suddenly quiet. "I remember falling at about a million miles an hour out of the sky, in a big burning mess. So... fire, that's my earliest memory."

There was a long pause, filled only by the whisper of the fireplace. "Was it... painful?"

"Very."

Aziraphale pressed a hand gently over his mouth. "Oh, Crowley..." he murmured, flinching away from the flames roaring in the hearth. "I'm so sorry." 

"Not your fault," he said with a shrug, taking a long draught of wine.

"No wonder you don't remember your creation-day," he said, running his fingers over the rim of his glass. "I feel terrible for asking."

"Don't," he said firmly, drawing his eyes back up to his face. "Don't be sorry for asking questions, angel. Nothing wrong with that."

He nodded slightly, wiping his eye delicately. He finished his glass, and placed it back down on the table, taking a deep breath. "That's quite enough alcohol for one day, I think," he said, leaning back. Crowley followed suit, throwing his arm thoughtlessly over the back of the sofa. 

Aziraphale tensed up for a moment when the weight fell along the back of his shoulders. Crowley froze. After a moment, the Queen seemed to relax. He was still tipsy, and the strains of the day-to-day ruling of his realm spied their chance to finally catch up to him. They broke over him like a wave, dragging his eyelids down, gently pushing him down towards the nearest warm, safe thing he could find. That 'thing' happened to be Crowley's chest. He stopped breathing for a moment when Aziraphale's head landed against him. He looked down, wide-eyed, expecting him to leap back like he'd been stung as soon as he realised what he was lying on. Any moment now... 

Soft snoring filled the air. His jaw went slack, his lips forming several shapes, trying to summon up the right words for this scenario. He didn't know what to do. This sort of thing just didn't happen to him. No one wanted to fall asleep on the Dullahan's chest, for fear they'd never wake up again. He gulped, twisting his head around to look at the slack, peaceful expression on Aziraphale's face, one he never thought he'd find resting against him so closely. The Queen always kept his barriers up; everyone was at arm's length, always fearful of some unseen consequence hiding right around the corner. He wondered what he'd say, when he woke up. Would he ever speak of this again? Would this be Crowley's only taste? He felt a lump in his throat. He'd never felt lonely, in all the years he'd spent living alone, but now... now, he was afraid that he might. Loneliness took root when you knew you were missing out on something better than what you had, and when he looked down at the Queen draped over him, well... He already knew he was holding a forbidden treasure. 

He cast an eye over the gifts on the table. In the back of his mind, he knew why he'd belittled them. Each one in turn, he had to ridicule. He had to laugh in the face of the possibility that Aziraphale might marry one of these suitors because if he didn't, he might weep instead. He gritted his teeth until it hurt, looking away, knowing the bleak truth of the matter. He was Unseelie. Aziraphale may find him a refreshing change from his court, but he would never love him in return. The chasm between their races was too wide to breach, and the drop to the bottom was far too deep to ever be worth that risk. Love, itself, was not enough to bring them together. 

Despite himself, Crowley lifted his arm, reaching tentatively toward Aziraphale's hand, which rested almost weightlessly on the other side of Crowley's chest. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at his face. He sighed lightly. Unable to resist the temptation to make the most of this moment, this one opportunity, he gently clasped his hand over Aziraphale's. His heart lurched as he stirred slightly, a soft mumble passing his lips before he settled again, but not before his fingers unconsciously curled around Crowley's hand in return. He gave a short wheeze of disbelief. 

The warmth spreading through his heart didn't go unnoticed. He shook his head, looking helplessly around the room which had suddenly become both a prison and a paradise. Love was sweet, but the aftertaste was bitter, and Crowley couldn't stand the thought of tasting one knowing he had to expect the other, too. His face crumpled slightly, his eyes dampening behind his sunglasses. 

"Why me?” he whispered, tilting his chin up to face the ceiling. “Why _him?_ ”

Aziraphale didn't show his face in the palace again that day. He didn't attend the start-of-season meeting with his key advisers (which he'd never seen the point in anyway; there were no real seasonal changes in this realm), or the lunch that Gabriel had nagged him into accepting, or even his usual mid-afternoon break in the gardens. Gabriel stalked the halls, hoping to find him. 

"You there, child," he called out, spotting Wensleydale up ahead, sweeping the floor of the empty dining room. Wensley looked up, his face carefully schooled not to reveal his distaste as Gabriel approached. "Where is the Queen?"

He stopped sweeping, standing his broom up next to him like one of the duty-guards holding their spears. "Why would I know?"

"Because you're always trailing him around," he said with a false smile, stretched thin over his impatience. "For some reason I will never understand, he enjoys your company. So, I'm asking you again: where is he?"

Wensley stared back with a deadpan expression. "Maybe you should try the infirmary," he said. "He might be visiting the sick."

"There. Was that so difficult?" he said, ruffling his neatly combed hair and turning to leave. Wensley glared after him, combing his hair back into place with his fingers and rolling his eyes. If Gabriel took a blind bit of notice, he'd have known that Aziraphale _never_ visited the palace infirmary — unless it was for Crowley, he supposed. 

It was a long walk down the tree trunk and into the root-cavern that made up the infirmary. Gabriel took it at a brisk pace, and barged through the infirmary doors without knocking. Anathema looked up in irritation from her patient. "Visiting hours are over," she said firmly.

"Where is - ?"

"Didn't you hear me?" she interrupted. "Get out. I don't have time for this."

He set his jaw. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to, young lady?"

"Duke Gabriel, high-ranking courtier to the Queen and, right now, a goddamn nuisance," she said, taking the patient's temperature without bothering to even look at the disgruntled noble. "Titles don't matter down here. Come back during visiting hours or not at all."

Affronted, he spluttered and began preparing threats, but she'd already turned her back on him. The conversation was clearly over. He glanced around as if he might find someone to back him up. He certainly didn't see that, but he did spot the young boy making his way over to Anathema's side with an armful of medicine bottles. 

"Aha! Adam," he said, walking up to him. Anathema huffed, shooting him another cutting glance now that he was bothering her assistant, too. "Has the Queen been down here today?" 

The boy wrinkled his nose. "Dunno. I only just got here," he said, because it was all relative, really. He'd been here for six hours, but that was only a small part of a 24-hour day, wasn't it? "Why d'you need to know, anyway?"

"I'm his chief advisor, I need to speak to him. It's important," he said, glaring at the back of his head as he handed Anathema the medicine bottles. 

"Bet he could still run the Queendom without you, though."

"You little - !"

"In fact, I reckon Crowley would prob'ly do a better job than you," he said, as if Gabriel had never opened his mouth. 

Gabriel paused. He let out a superficial chuckle, wagging his finger at the boy. "Oh, right. I see. I know what you're doing," he said, as if he was in on the joke. Adam looked at him in distaste. "You're baiting me. I get it. Very funny, Adam, now tell me where the Queen is."

Adam sighed. "Fine. Look in the gardens," he said, after a quick glance at the clock. Aziraphale was usually inside by this time of day. 

Brian saw Gabriel next. He stuck out like a sore thumb, stomping across the moss-lawn with tension in his shoulders and a scowl half-masked behind a 'polite' expression. Brian waited patiently as he approached, resting his trowel on his leg with a docile smile. The nobleman wrinkled his nose at the sight of the soil smeared over his forehead and ingrained into his clothes.

"Boy," he said, after a moment's hesitation in which he realised he couldn't recall Brian's name. 

"Sir," he replied cheerily. He squinted up at him, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Come to help with the weeding?"

He looked at the dirt, and the pile of dandelions by Brian's knee. "No," he said. "Have you seen the Queen?"

"Oh, Aziraphale?" he said, tilting his head innocently. He had not. "You just missed him."

He let out a frustrated groan toward the sky. "Well? Where did he go?"

"I think..." he said slowly, pretending to think very hard. "He said something about visiting the gatehouse."

"And what would he be doing there?" he said with a note of stern condescension.

Brian didn't flinch. "He's the Queen. We're not s'posed to question him, are we?"

Gabriel stormed off without another word. He passed back through the winding halls of the palace and out the other side, into the crowded city. It was a sociable time of day, when most of the work had been done and the heat was dwindling as nature began to turn her mind towards the night. People were coming out in numbers to socialise by their garden gates, and children played back and forth across the roads. Gabriel wasn't well-known enough to scatter citizens with his mere presence, like Aziraphale was, much to his chagrin. If he were king, he certainly would be. For now, he had to awkwardly fumble his way through the throng of people, until he reached the foot of the city walls. 

He asked the duty-guards at the gate if Aziraphale had passed by. They said he hadn't. Disgruntled, he stepped inside the gatehouse at the foot of the watchtower, finding a young girl sat on the lieutenant's desk while she worked. 

"Lieutenant," he said, inclining his head slightly. 

She looked up. "Yes, Duke Gabriel?" she said. 

"I've heard the Queen came to visit you," he said expectantly.

The lieutenant arched a brow, leaning away from her desk. She and Pepper shared a glance. "I don't think so," she said. "Who told you this?"

His jaw clenched. 'A garden boy' seemed like a weak answer... "That’s not important," he said, raising his chin. "He's been absent from court since this morning. I'm starting to get worried."

Pepper huffed. "He's entitled to a break," she said adamantly. She looked him up and down with obvious dislike. "I don't think he wants you following him all over the place while he's trying to rest, either."

Finally, he snapped. "Who let you in here?"

The lieutenant held up her hand placatingly. "I did, sir," she said. "She's my little protégée. Mark my words, she'll be taking my job in here before much longer. I’ll be putting in a good word with the Queen when I retire."

He ground his teeth. "Wonderful news," he said, before giving up entirely. He turned, steeling himself to face the city once again, and left the gatehouse. After the door closed behind him, Pepper and the lieutenant bumped fists, and resumed working. 

Aziraphale woke up, though he didn't open his eyes. He was bleary with sleep and whatever alcohol was left in his system, far too warm and comfortable to even consider moving just yet. He let out a contented hum. His drowsy mind began to lazily fill in the blanks: he was probably lying in bed, perhaps in the small hours of the morning if he was lucky, and he was in no rush to go anywhere. Yes, that's right. He snuggled deeper into his pillow, finding it strangely firm against his cheek. It barely registered in his head. He was just about to drift back to sleep when he became aware of the steady, subtle up-and-down movement under his head. But... pillows didn't move... 

He jolted up, eyes snapping open. One deep drag of the air brought it all rushing back: the wine, the presents, the — 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, lying very still underneath him, nervous of startling him any further. 

Aziraphale's breath caught. He suddenly noticed the way his hand was splayed out against his chest, with his other tangled with Crowley's own hand. He snatched it back immediately. "Good Lord, I am so sorry," he said, leaping off the sofa, stumbling in his haste. He couldn't look Crowley in the eye. "Did - Did I - ?"

"Fall asleep on my chest?" he said, nodding slowly, gauging his reaction. "W — Well... a bit, yeah."

"Oh no. Oh dear. This is very bad," he said, flustered and panicked, too busy pacing to see the dark turn in Crowley's expression. "If - If anyone found out - "

"Yeah, yeah, if anyone found out about this, you'd be a laughing stock. I get it," he said, resigning himself to a rejection that he always knew was inevitable. He lifted himself off the sofa, more angry with himself than with Aziraphale. What had he even been hoping that he'd do? That he'd offer him some sort of illicit affair, damn it all?

He flinched. "Crowley?"

"Don't worry, I'm leaving," he said, unbolting the door. "I can take a hint."

Aziraphale wanted to reach out to him, wanted to cry out his name, push the door shut again and make him stay. He couldn't. He choked on his own cowardice, helplessly watching the door swing shut behind him. He hung his head, alone, with only the ghost of the sensation of Crowley's body underneath him, as if he were still there. A hint of his cologne lingered on Aziraphale's shirt. He touched it gently, knowing that he'd need to change it fast, in case someone noticed. He swallowed the urge to cry. Crowley was right to be angry. Aziraphale was being cruel, dangling his affections right in front of him and then snatching them away, when even he had no idea what he was really feeling. He was sending mixed messages at every turn. Or, worse, his actions were telling Crowley the biggest lie of all:

_I don't even like you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. Sticks And Stones

Aziraphale went straight to his room after his spat with Crowley, and ran himself a hot bath. Sometimes, he preferred the cool rush of a waterfall against his skin, or the gentle flutter of the waves on a lake, but now more than ever he needed that burning heat to clear his head. He lowered himself into the water with a groan. He hadn't realised how much tension lingered in his muscles until it began to work itself to the surface. He lay in the bath for a long time, mulling over what he should say to Crowley when he saw him again. Should he say anything? Would it be fair to him, to try and patch over what had happened, and keep pretending like he was doing nothing out of the ordinary? Guilt trickled down his spine. He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them close, conflicted. 

What _did_ he want from Crowley? Even he wasn't sure. He was certainly attractive, and Aziraphale was ashamed of how often his mind wandered beyond what he considered appropriate toward a friend. That fact alone pointed to something very obvious that he might want, but he paled at the very thought. He skirted around it, unwilling to give it a name. It couldn't be done. Aziraphale was a Seelie Queen, constrained firmly by his blood and status. Crowley was the Dullahan, the very personification of freedom and solitude. It would be doomed from the outset. It. _It._ He couldn't seem to steer his mind away from that nebulous, ubiquitous _it_. He sank lower in the water, unwilling to face the world while his head still felt heavy with confusion. 

_It’s lust. Simple lust, nothing more,_ he told himself sternly, trying to break through it. _I can just ignore it, and it will go away on its own._

Crowley arrived in the dining hall a little late, groggy from a short nap. His clothes were creased and his hair was unkempt, but he'd spent a few minutes in the mirror convincing himself he could pass it off as a handsomely disheveled look. The hall fell silent as he opened the door. He froze. All eyes were on him. His brow creased, and his heart skipped a beat, gripped with sudden fear on Aziraphale's behalf. For all he hated his anxiety over causing a scandal, he knew he was right. Had they found out about earlier? He looked expectantly at the head of the table, only to abruptly realise why they were staring. It wasn't him they'd been expecting. 

Aziraphale wasn't there. 

With a careless smile and wave at the court, he jogged down the length of the table. He stopped beside the last person he wanted to talk to, but who was also, unfortunately, the most useful. "Gabriel," he said, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "Where's Aziraphale?"

He turned sharply. "Everyone assumed he was with you," he said, genuinely caught off-guard for once in his life.

Crowley scanned through the faces at the table, who were already muttering amongst themselves. "Not with me. I've been asleep," he said. It was a half-truth. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"This morning, on the throne," he said. "I've been looking for him ever since."

 _Can't have been looking that hard. He was only in the drawing room,_ he thought derisively. "Hmph. Right," he said, straightening up. He had a funny feeling he knew why he wasn't showing his face. "No use me being here, then."

Gabriel rose from his seat in indignation. "Where do you think you're going?" he called as Crowley sauntered back toward the main doors. 

"Back to bed. See you tomorrow, folks," he said without bothering to turn around, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder. "Ciao."

 _He wants space,_ Crowley reasoned as he made his way back to his room. _That's alright. I can do space._ Royal decorum was ridiculously high-maintenance, as he knew, and he'd need time to pick himself back up. He wondered if he could've been gentler, when he left. It wasn't Aziraphale's fault. He was drunk, and Crowley was the one who'd put his arm around him in the first place. It was a stupid, blundering mistake. He sighed, closing his bedroom door behind him, staring at the bed. 

"Just a few more weeks to go," he mumbled, shrugging off his shirt. "Could just sleep it away."

He lay down, staring at the ceiling. He could. It would be easy enough to just roll over and not wake up until it was time for him to go home, but... it would leave so much unsaid. He'd walk away from the Blossom Realm knowing that he'd been a coward, knowing that he'd just run away and cowered from his own hopeless feelings like a frightened child, instead of being an adult about it and putting them aside, for the sake of his friendship with Aziraphale. He had to be satisfied with what he had, for as long as he had it. That way, at least, letting go might not seem so much like goodbye. 

The palace seemed quieter. Aziraphale returned to his routine without a word about that day when he'd seemingly vanished into thin air. He grounded himself in his duties: manage the city, redress grievances, plan for the future. The latter involved many days sat with his book of prophecy, desperately searching for something to ease his path. For once in his life, he wanted someone to tell him what he should do. He was adrift, and he felt the absence of Crowley lean heavily on his shoulder as he went about his days. He couldn't help feeling that he'd really gone and mucked it up this time. He sat behind his desk in his study, staring blankly at the book under his nose. It took him a long moment before he realised what page he was looking at.

_O Great Blossom Tree, beware the serpent among thy branches. Thy flowers he shall take, softly as the changing seasons._

Aziraphale closed the book. Chronologically, that was the very last prophecy of all, by his reckoning. He put the book in the drawer to his right, deciding he'd had quite enough of the future for one day. Just as he slid it shut again, somebody knocked at the door. "Come in," he called, eager to distract himself.

He instantly recognised the black fingernails which curled around the door. "Uh... hi, angel," said Crowley, nervously poking his head into the room. "Is now a good time?"

He straightened up, fortifying himself for a new and unfamiliar dynamic to take form in the aftermath of his mistake. "I don't see why not."

He stepped inside, leaning on the door as he closed it behind him. He didn't come to sit down. Aziraphale tried not to be stung by that. "Feeling better?"

"I suppose I am."

He nodded slowly. "Just thought you might want a break," he said with a shrug. "We never did go for that ride, up north, like you said."

He blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Oh," he said, almost to himself. _We're still friends,_ he realised, seeing a flicker of that optimistic hesitancy in Crowley's face. A smile began to tug at his mouth. "That would be delightful, Crowley."

The royal stables lay just beyond the city limits, sat on an open sprawl of fields where the rich grasses were like green down coating the rolling hills. A cloud of the musty, dry scent of shavings hung in the air near the stable block, though they were empty. A fairy sat on the fence, looking out across the pastures where the distant shapes of horses ambled across the field. Aziraphale cleared his throat politely. They jumped.

"Sire!" they cried, leaping down from the fence with a deep bow. 

"Be a dear and prepare our saddles, will you?" he said, as they nodded and hopped back over the fence toward the tack shed. He made his way over to the gate, stepping into the field with Crowley close behind. "Azrael does come to your call, I assume?"

"It'd be a pretty poor show if she didn't," he said dryly. He gave a sharp, commanding whistle, and one of the dark shapes in the distance lifted their head. She was stood alone in the field, unsurprisingly, before she thundered over to meet her master. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley tried to surreptitiously fuss over his horse. Clearing his throat daintily, he whistled a short, melodious tune, and another set of hoofbeats rapidly approached. 

Crowley looked up, watching the oncoming horse. Its snowy coat gleamed under the sun, with the feathery fur around its feet catching the light as if it was set with diamonds. The closer he came, the smaller Crowley felt. Aziraphale's horse was truly enormous, and certainly thick-set enough to plough a field without breaking a sweat. Something glinted on its head. Crowley squinted. "Bugger me," he said, gawking, as the beast slowed to a halt in front of them. "You didn't tell me you had a bloody unicorn."

Aziraphale patted the creature's nose, looking up at the large silver horn jutting out from his forehead. "Lovely, isn't he?" he said. "I've had him from a foal. He's called Mercury."

Mercury and Azrael eyed one another suspiciously. The mare was slimmer and sleeker than him, but there was a wicked glint of intelligence in those red eyes which put her leagues ahead of him. She was death's horse; she'd seen more than this pampered field-pony could ever dream of. She tossed her head, pawing the ground, just daring him to step out of line. The unicorn snorted. It was as good as a polite _hello there, nice to meet you_. She blinked, settling down in surprise. Mercury stared back at her, perfectly calm. He'd noticed her in the pastures these last few weeks, but she'd stubbornly refused to mix with the other horses in the fields, no matter how amiably they'd approached. She flicked an ear. For now, she'd tolerate him. 

It felt good for Crowley, being back in the saddle. He felt like himself again. Aziraphale needed a step to climb onto Mercury's back, but he settled quickly, and led the way out of the pasture. 

"Where are we going, then?" asked Crowley as they left the stables behind them. Trees soon crowded over them, mostly towering evergreens and shrubs, as opposed to the deciduous forests to the south which he was more familiar with. 

"There's a lovely waterfall at the end of this trail. Excellent for bathing, if the mood takes you," he said, shooting him a wry smile. "Though of course I'd rather you do that another time."

He arched a brow, riding level with him. "Aren't you worried someone might, y'know...?" he said.

"No one uses the northern trails. Not enough fruit and fishing water up here," he said, idly scratching Mercury's glittering mane. "The plunge pool is very sheltered, too. It's a nice private spot."

He grunted in understanding. He tugged the reigns a little, adjusting Azrael's position to distract himself from the thought of Aziraphale bathing under a cascade of clear, icy water, out in the open, for anyone to see. He sharply bit the inside of his cheek. His mind snapped back to the sunlit riding trail, long and straight and open. He glanced at Aziraphale mischievously. Without saying anything, he spurred Azrael on a little faster. Aziraphale matched his pace. He did it again, and she broke into a lazy trot. Mercury did the same. 

"What on earth are you doing?" Aziraphale asked, tilting his head. 

"Don't know what you're talking about, angel," he said, squeezing Azrael a little harder. She trotted faster, snorting in amusement, teasing the unicorn beside her. He tossed his head slightly in response. 

"You do!"

"Sorry, can't hear you. Hooves are too loud," he said, spurring Azrael into a canter. Aziraphale spluttered.

"You stupid man! You're still wounded!" he cried, pushing Mercury onward in pursuit. "Slow down, Crowley, or you're going to get yourself killed!"

"You'll have to catch me first!" he laughed over his shoulder, giving Azrael another firm squeeze. She whinnied, and put on a burst of speed, galloping down the path. 

The wind stung his eyes as he leaned forward, hunkering low in the saddle as Azrael surged forward. Hooves thundered behind. He looked back, grinning, at the determination on Aziraphale's face. Mercury lengthened his stride, pushing harder, chasing that silky black tail fluttering in the breeze. His heart raced. Pine needles scattered under their feet, tossed up with clods of earth as they hared along the trail. Aziraphale clung to the reigns until his palms ached. Crowley's laughter carried on the air, whipping past him, filling him with senseless excitement. Despite himself, he began to grin. 

Crowley glanced over his shoulder again. He was starting to pull away; the unicorn was fast, but Azrael was no ordinary steed. She was a harbinger of death, and no one could outrun the end. You couldn't ask for a faster horse. Just for devilment, he slipped his feet from the stirrups, and swung his leg over the saddle, steadying himself with practised ease while Azrael kept up her unrelenting pace. He could already hear Aziraphale's fussy cries. He swung his leg over again, sitting backwards in the saddle. 

"Crowley! Sit properly, for Heaven's sake!" Aziraphale shrieked, craning his neck to see ahead on the path. "You can't see where you're going!"

He spread his arms, pouting indignantly. "So?" he said, keeping a tight grip on the saddle with his legs. Azrael wasn't above throwing him off for the sake of maintaining speed, as he had learnt the hard way. 

"So, you're going to hurt yourself!" he said. He gasped, jabbing a finger over his head. _"Look out!"_

Crowley turned. "Ngk!" He ducked, his face bumping painfully against Azrael's backside as a low-hanging branch rushed overhead. Aziraphale dodged it too. 

"Does that convince you?" he cried triumphantly, shouting over the hammering of Mercury's hooves against the hard earth. 

Crowley sat up, adrenaline setting him alight with reckless energy. "Alright," he said, throwing himself backward, lying down on his in the saddle with his hands entwined under his head. The jostling of the galloping horse beneath him made it extremely uncomfortable, but he couldn't resist the way it made the cords in Aziraphale's neck tighten. "Better?"

"No!"

Crowley's mad cackling filled the air as they broke free from the trees and blue skies opened up overhead, as endless as the rugged moorland unfurling below. Azrael needed no directing. She weaved between the boulders without breaking stride, taking every sharp turn smoothly as her master lounged in the saddle. He taunted Aziraphale as they went, drawing out indignant shouts of concern from the Queen, which eventually dissolved in the thrill of the chase. Mercury's glittering fur became slick with sweat along his flanks as he tried to keep pace with the mare ahead of him, who never seemed to tire, like she'd been doing nothing more than a leisurely trot all the way here. She could've left him in the dust if she'd wanted. 

He faltered, stumbling as he tried to take a corner as hard as she did. His foot slipped, losing traction on the grass and loose earth. A terrified whinny ripped from his throat. His balance failed. His bridle strained as Aziraphale tried to pull him back, to no avail. The ground surged up toward his nose as he was launched down an incline by his own runaway momentum. Aziraphale's weight vanished from the saddle. His flank crashed into the ground, cutting his cries short as the air was knocked from his lungs. Mercury lay on the ground, stunned, panting wildly. 

It happened too fast for Crowley. One moment, he'd glanced over his shoulder to grin at Azrael, and the next, the bloody unicorn had fallen down the hill. "Aziraphale!" he yelled, snatching the reigns to force Azrael to a halt. 

He jumped down, sprinting to the spot where they'd disappeared over the incline. Mercury lay at the foot of the hill, wild-eyed, riderless. Crowley's breathing laboured as he scanned the grassland, only vaguely aware of his horse rushing past him toward the fallen unicorn. His eyes caught a flicker of movement to his right. 

"Aziraphale!" he called, sprinting down the hill while gravity threatened to pull him over with every step. He only fell to his knees when he reached the Queen, who had flattened a gorse bush in his fall. "Are you alright?"

He groaned. "I'm not quite sure," he said. Crowley reached out to help him up, only to draw back sharply when he let out a strangled cry. "Ah... oh - oh dear... my arm, I think - I think it could be broken."

"Shit," Crowley hissed, grabbing his shoulders instead and carefully pulling him upright. Blue blood welled in the scratches on his face left by the gorse bush. 

A dumb smile overcame Aziraphale face for a moment. "Oh, look," he said, and Crowley looked over his shoulder. Azrael had nudged Mercury back to his feet, and was touching her nose against his grass-stained fur in a gentle, soothing motion. "They're getting along. How lovely."

"Yeah, great, whatever," he replied dismissively, deciding that he must be in shock. He needed to get him back home, quick. "Can you walk?"

They had a steady walk back toward the city. Aziraphale's legs were fine, but he nonetheless took full advantage of Crowley's offer to take his weight. The pain in his arm conveniently negated any shame he felt for taking advantage of Crowley again. Mercury and Azrael trailed behind them, flank to flank, until they dropped them off back in the pasture. From there, hurrying away from the concerned stares of the stable-hands, they went on toward the looming shape of the palace. 

As soon as they came within view of the steps, a figure in a silver suit came hurrying down to meet them. "Your majesty!" Michael cried, flushed with relief. Crowley cocked a brow, surprised by his agitation. "Thank the lord. I was just about to send out a search party."

He smiled sheepishly. "There's no need for any fuss, I'm quite all right," he said, subtly taking his weight off Crowley's arm. "Though I will be paying Anathema a visit, I admit."

Michael shot Crowley a withering look. "Why would that be, sire?"

"Just a little tumble," he said. He looked unconvinced, eyeing the makeshift sling Crowley had fashioned from a strip of dark cloth, and the dark blue crust over the cut on his cheek. "It was a riding accident, Michael. Nobody's to blame."

Crowley glanced at his feet, knowing that wasn't quite true. If he hadn't been fooling around, he'd have never been going at that speed in the first place. He'd have to try making it up to him somehow. If Michael noticed his guilty conscience, he didn't say anything.

"I'd advise you show your face to the people once you've been to the infirmary," Michael said, with a nervous glance up at the palace. "Everyone saw the petals fall. They landed in the town square."

He winced. "Oh dear. How many?"

"A whole flower," he said. Aziraphale sighed. “It frightened us all.” 

Crowley glanced between the two fae, baffled. "Uh, when did this turn into a conversation about gardening?" he said, his grip on Aziraphale's good arm now reduced to a gentle grip on his elbow. "What've flowers got to do with anything?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. "You don't know?" he said. He shook his head, and Michael openly rolled his eyes. Much of his irritation was born from the stress of the morning. "Well... I suppose there's no reason you would, being that you're a solitary soul... erm..."

"Come on, angel. We don't have all day."

"Right. Um, well, whenever I'm... damaged — physically, for example — petals fall from the palace. It's a rather useful measure of my health, for the most part," he said, gesturing up to the branches towering overhead, crowded with white blooms. "Every Queen's tree does the same. When the last petal falls... I shall cease to be."

He made a noise of understanding, tilting his head back to admire the tree. It was so full of blossom that it looked almost plush, putting the nearby clouds to shame against the cerulean blue backdrop. A cold realisation suddenly wrenched him back. "Wait," he said, looking at the Queen. "Then, that means — the prophecy, with the — the serpent — ?"

"My flowers he shall take," he replied with a note of sardonicism. Michael hugged himself slightly, shuddering. Aziraphale looked over at the Dullahan with a sad resignation in his eye, seeing his reluctance to accept the implications. "Yes, Crowley. That particular prophecy seems to foretell my death."

His eyes had stretched wide behind his sunglasses. His jaw worked up and down, throat tightening. Aziraphale touched his arm sympathetically. "Terribly sorry I didn't explain that earlier, dear boy. It's a nasty shock, I know, but don't fret," he said, trying to gently uplift his mood. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of a snake in this realm in all my years as Queen. I'm quite safe for the time being, I assure you."

"You're certain?" he said sharply. The question stumbled past his lips before he had time to think about it. Michael raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet slightly impressed by his obvious concern for Aziraphale. That was something they shared, at least. 

"Perfectly," he said, unwittingly looking the fabled serpent right in the eye. "Best not to dwell on such things, anyway. Come inside, dear. You've gone terribly pale."

He took his arm, and Crowley allowed himself to be led up into the palace. His snake-form rippled under his skin, stirred by the revelation, though Crowley couldn't sense any anger. There was no animalistic fury, no ravenous hunger, not even a hint of anything he didn't recognise. It was just him, plain and simple, like it always had been. The thought of coiling himself around Aziraphale in his other form was appealing, yes, but not to hurt him. He'd saved his life once already. Why would he throw that away? Why would he ever even dream of murdering the fairy he lov — his ang — of murdering Aziraphale?

Distracted, he peeled off from him before they reached the infirmary, giving some weak excuse about how he didn't want to get collared by Anathema again. Michael seemed attentive enough, supporting Aziraphale’s weight as he walked, and he and Crowley shared a glance of tense mutual understanding before they parted ways. Aziraphale was in good hands. Crowley agreed to wait in his study. There, at least, he'd get some peace. 

The office was as empty and quiet as they'd left it earlier that day. With a heavy sigh, he approached the desk, idly tapping his nails across the polished surface. He circled it thoughtlessly. It felt therapeutic, somehow, to just move without thinking about where he was going. His leg grazed something. Looking down, he noticed that one of the drawers was still slightly open. He tried to push it closed, but met with resistance. He frowned, pulling it back out, intending to try again from a better angle. He froze. An innocuous green book sat in the drawer, with an embossed gold title: The Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

He bit his lip. That book claimed he'd be the one to kill Aziraphale. Was it possible, just maybe, that he'd misremembered the prophecy...? Maybe there was a little subtlety in the wording, something he'd missed, something which could turn the whole thing on its head. With a paranoid glance at the door, he snatched the book, flipping it open. 

"Come on, come on... why isn't there an index?" he mumbled after a few seconds searching. "Aha!"

He'd found it. The serpent prophecy was the penultimate block of text on a random page, thrown haphazardly in the middle of the book like some throwaway line. He huffed. Aziraphale had mentioned that Agnes had a wicked sense of humour.

He read it over and over again, but it was exactly as Aziraphale had recounted it. He knew it word for word. Of course he did; he'd probably done exactly what Crowley was doing now, in search of some ray of hope that might save him from the jaws of the serpent. He swallowed hard. Well... he still didn't believe the future was set in stone. Agnes might have had a certain intuition, but even she could only make her best guess. Crowley could take matters into his own hands. If he left the realm right on schedule and never returned, Aziraphale would be safe. It was simple. He took a deep breath, the air like acid in his lungs as he wrestled with the selfish desire to keep coming back to this place, to this Queen, even knowing the dangers he would bring with him. He couldn't afford to do that. Better that he and Aziraphale parted as bittersweet friends than stumbling onward to a messy, violent end, even if Crowley couldn't begin to fathom how. 

He went to replace the book in the drawer, when a prophecy on the opposite page caught his eye. His brow furrowed. What the...?

_Oho! Not so hasty, Dark Ryder, for soon thyne owne steed shall grow leaden._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn’t usually post early like this but I’m feeling pretty down at the moment and could use a bit of a lift. You guys are good at cheering me up, since I love being able to share my stories and see you enjoy them. I love you all, and you all make a big difference to me :)


	13. A Horse With A Horn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to begin this week with a HUGE thank-you & shoutout to tumblr user sadlynojellybeans for creating some awesome fanart for this fic! I was so excited to see it & so incredibly flattered, it’s amazing and I love it to death. Here’s a link, go show them some love: 
> 
> https://sadlynojellybeans.tumblr.com/post/618710048087113728/so-here-it-is-its-supposed-to-be-a-fanart-for

Crowley visited Azrael as soon as he could slip away from the palace. It was harder than it sounded; Aziraphale had broken his arm in the fall, and no seemed to be listening to him when he said it was an accident. Every duty-guard he passed was breathing down his neck. He was the only one who had been there when Aziraphale went down, and that news had even spread down into the city. Their gazes were just as suspicious, when he wandered the streets. 

The stables were quieter, at least. The fairies at work there mostly just ignored him, apart from a small wave and a smile here and there. He returned them. At least some people understood. He leaned on the fence, staring out into the pasture. Azrael's black coat was easy to pick out among the herd of pale horses spread across the fields. She stood apart from them, like usual, with the exception of Mercury, who was beside her as she drank from the water trough. He rested his nose against her side, carefully grooming her fur. Crowley tilted his head, expecting her to turn and bite him at any moment. She didn't. 

What the hell was Agnes on about? She didn't look any different. Deciding that the old bat was just playing a trick on him from centuries in the past, he just had a quick word with the stable boy to make sure Azrael wasn't being overfed, and went back to the city again. 

Aziraphale was under strict orders not to work for at least two days. It was an odd weekend, that's for sure. The realm was ruled by the courtiers in his absence, and somehow, Crowley found himself lumped with the job of carrying messages between Aziraphale and the court. He read the scrolls aloud, with the shape of the throne fanning out behind him, like a pair of wings folded at his back. It was an irritating job, mostly because he wasn't allowed to comment on the issues being discussed since, as everyone took great relish in reminding him, he wasn't a member of the court. He had no formal rank. He had no right to speak, as Gabriel said. Repeatedly. Crowley settled for making crude gestures behind his back instead. 

He was relieved to find Aziraphale back in his study first thing Monday morning. "Angel! Good, you're back," he said, sitting across from him. "I was one more royal announcement away from shoving the scroll down Gabriel's throat. How's the arm?"

"Still broken," he said, wincing down at the sling. "I'll be tip-top in a few weeks though, so Anathema says. If I behave."

He laughed, patting the mostly-healed stab wound under his shirt. "Looks like we're both a bit bruised, eh?"

"Quite. Now, lets see..." he said, looking down at his desk, and the papers scattered over it. He awkwardly reached across himself to grab his quill. Crowley watched him begin some paperwork, painfully slowly. His hand wavered strangely. 

"Angel."

"Hm?"

"Are you right-handed?" he said, nodding at his arm in the sling. 

"Erm... yes," he admitted, looking down at the shaky, near-illegible _To whom it may concern_ on his page. Crowley sighed, and dragged his chair back behind the desk. 

"Here, budge up. Give me the quill," he said, taking the feather. Aziraphale was too surprised to argue. "Right. What am I writing?"

"O - Oh," he said, unable to fight back a flustered smile. He cleared his throat. "To whom it may concern, comma. I am writing to request - no, no, scratch that. I am writing to _announce_ that..."

Crowley wrote everything for Aziraphale. His handwriting was nothing like the loopy, complex script Aziraphale wrote in, but in his humble opinion, it was much kinder on the eyes. Hanging around while he worked was a lot more entertaining when he actually knew what was going on, too. He cracked jokes about current affairs as they cropped up, and even convinced him to hide a few clever puns in official paperwork. They were having a grand old time, until there was a knock at the door. Aziraphale called them in.

"Your majes - what is _he_ doing there?" Gabriel said, bristling at the sight of Crowley sat behind the desk with the Queen. 

"He's my scribe," Aziraphale said, tensing up. Crowley gave a cocky smile. "He's been tremendously helpful. What is it, Gabriel?"

"I was coming to ask after your health," he said tightly. He wasn't looking at Aziraphale as he spoke; he kept a venomous gaze firmly on the Dullahan. "I'd expected you to be alone."

He laughed nervously. "Oh, when am I ever, these days?" he said. 

Gabriel folded his hands at his back. "Making the most of the company before he leaves, I imagine," he said. Aziraphale's smile slipped. "You hadn't forgotten, had you, sire? I was speaking to a nurse just this morning who told me he'll be ready to leave within the next two weeks."

"Of course not," Aziraphale said, quietly, trying to appear unperturbed. Crowley looked away guiltily. In truth, Crowley's imminent departure had slipped his mind entirely. He'd become such a familiar face that it seemed as if he'd been here forever, so much so that to have him disappear would be just... unthinkable. 

"You must be ecstatic," Gabriel continued, turning to Crowley instead. "Finally able to go back where you belong."

"Thrilled," he said in a deadpan voice. _If not for that fucking serpent prophecy, I'd turn up every springtime just to screw up your plans, you egotistical sleazebag,_ he thought fiercely. Aziraphale's face sat in his peripheral vision, his good mood spoiled. 

Gabriel seemed satisfied with that, and turned to leave. Aziraphale sighed, looking down at the paperwork which they'd been giggling about before he'd arrived. "I reckon his true name must be Captain Killjoy, y'know," Crowley said, curling his lip. 

Aziraphale gave a short chuckle. His heart wasn't in it. "Quite."

By the end of the week, Crowley began to think of home. He'd always lived alone, apart from his animals, and his plants. He wondered what it would feel like now, going back after spending this long in the company of others. Lonely, at a guess. He'd miss Aziraphale, and the guilt of vanishing from his life entirely without a word of explanation would sit heavy on his conscience, but what else could he do? If that's how he protected Aziraphale from himself, that's what had to happen. Until the time came, he may as well enjoy the company. Aziraphale had sent for him this morning, asking him to come to the stables as soon as he could. He wondered why. 

He found him stood just inside the pasture, alone. He smiled nervously. "Good morning, Crowley," he said. "Lovely weather, wouldn't you say?"

"Same as every day," he said, immediately suspicious.

Aziraphale gulped. "Ah. Yes, I suppose it is," he said, glancing across the field. Azrael stood a few feet away, grazing, with one eye kept firmly on Crowley. He stepped up to the fence, calling her. She didn't budge. 

"Azrael. Hey," he said, irked. He snapped his fingers. She turned around and began walking away. "Oi!"

He vaulted over the fence, closing the gap between them in a few purposeful strides. Aziraphale quailed, and hurried after him. Azrael picked her head off the ground, snorting, her ears pressed flat to her head. Crowley hesitated, watching her, the way she stayed just beyond arm's reach. Something was wrong. She didn't want him near her. He curled his hand into a fist, trying to stomp out the spark of hurt in his chest. His horses had never turned away from him, not like everyone else. 

"Aziraphale, what have they done to her?" he snapped, jabbing a finger at the shape of the stables at the edge of the field. 

He fidgeted. "It's not so much what _they_ did to her," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "It's more what Mercury did, really."

Crowley scowled. "Well?"

"He, um... he's a stallion, you see," he explained, tugging on his shirt collar with his free arm. Crowley stared. "The stable hand called this morning. It seems that shortly after my little tumble, they might have - um - gotten rather friendly with one another..."

"What are you trying to tell me, angel?" he said, with the answer already tickling the back of his mind. 

"It seems that Azrael is expecting a foal," he burst out. An apologetic grimace clung to his face. "I am so sorry, Crowley, truly. She'll be very well taken care of, I swear it, and you can come back for her once it's all done with, yes?"

He didn't move for a moment. "What are you talking about?" he said dumbly. 

"Well... she can't travel pregnant, can she?" he said with a sheepish smile. "I can loan you another horse to go home on, of course. I shan't keep you. Like Gabriel said... you must be very eager to go home by now."

He was, but not for the reasons he thought. Crowley shook his head slowly, the realisation piling on top of him until the weight was ready to crush him. He couldn't go without her. Rage sparked deep in his gut, directionless and impotent. "That's not how it works," he said through gritted teeth, thoughtlessly stepping closer to loom over Aziraphale in anger. "I'm not just any old horseman. I'm the Dullahan. There isn't another bloody horse in this realm that could take me home. They’d bolt before I even got close." 

Aziraphale shrunk back in surprise. "W - Well, surely there must be _some_ way for you to go home," he said. Of all the responses he'd expected to this news, outright rage hadn't been one of them. 

Crowley whipped around, fixing a hard stare on Azrael. She stared back, her crimson eyes dolefully pleading with him. He set his jaw. There was only one thing he could do. Every second he stayed here, Aziraphale's life was in danger. Agnes's prophecies had proven themselves once again; Azrael was now certainly _leaden_. He blew out a long, bitter breath through his nose. "There is one way," he said, flexing his fingers as a golden glow spread over his palm. He needed a way to leave, for Aziraphale's sake. He'd take a life to save a life. He took a cautious step toward Azrael, taking care not to frighten her. "Hold still. This won't hurt."

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, not quite catching on to what was happening. Azrael had accepted her unborn's fate already, hanging her head. It was only when Crowley began to reach toward her belly that Aziraphale realised what was happening. "Crowley!"

He lunged forward, smacking his hand away before he could press it against the tiny swell of her belly. He hissed, jumping back several feet like he'd been shot. "Angel!" he screamed, holding his glowing palm against his chest. "What the _fuck_ was that? I could've killed you!"

"You will not harm that foal," he said, imposing himself between him and the mare. 

Crowley's breathing laboured, still getting over the shock of Aziraphale interfering. It would've only taken a little slip of the hand, and he'd have snatched the life right from his body without even meaning to. "Get out of the way, Aziraphale," he said, fighting to keep a level head. It wasn't his fault. He didn't know. He had no idea what Crowley really was. If he did... 

"You have no right to order me to do anything," he said, raising his chin with every ounce of the mightier-than-thou authority that Crowley would've expected of a Queen. Crowley's expression curdled with irritation. "I won't let you take an innocent life, not on my watch."

"Even innocent lives end someday, angel," he shot back. The hypocrisy tore his throat like thorns. "I'm just fast-tracking the inevitable. Let me do this."

Aziraphale's face twitched. Those soft blue eyes had hardened to cold steel, unwavering, ruthless. "Anthony J Crowley, I _forbid_ it," he said quietly. 

The light in his hand died immediately. The air was wrenched from Crowley lungs for an instant, hearing his name in someone else's mouth, jerking his puppet-strings with no room for argument. "Right," he croaked, recovering his voice after that freezing moment where he could do nothing but obey. "I see how it is."

He started toward the fence, relieved to find that he could still lift his feet from the ground. Aziraphale's cold expression dissipated the moment he realised the gravity of his actions. "Crowley!" he said, making to follow him, but hesitating, seeing the tension in his shoulders. "I — You — "

"No need to explain yourself, your majesty," he said jadedly, climbing over the fence without even turning his head. 

"You can't just leave, Crowley!" he said, wavering with desperation. 

He paused, his hand still lingering on the fence that separated them. Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth, realising what he'd said. Crowley gave a humourless laugh. "Yeah. I know," he replied. "You've made that very clear."

He walked away. Aziraphale watched helplessly, tears threatening to spill as he felt his heart break, just a little. Far away, at the very top of the Great Blossom Tree, a single petal loosened, and was snatched away on the next breath of the wind. It danced on the breeze, carried far over the heads of the people below, unnoticed. 

Crowley didn't think about where he went. He just picked a trail at random, and started to walk. His feet carried him through the evergreen forests to the north of the city, the very same that he and Aziraphale had raced through on horseback not long ago. He kept his head down, ignoring the memory of the wind rushing by, and of his laughter at his back. The air tasted different here. It was heavy with pine and the distant tang of fresh waters. He sighed, taking a deep drag from the air, trying to douse the resentment inside him. Aziraphale wasn't wrong to defend Azrael's baby. Crowley hated that he'd even thought of taking it away, but what else could he have done? He wished he could make Aziraphale understand. 

He came to a crossroads. He looked down each path; one led out into the open moorland where Aziraphale had fallen, while the other sloped down into the woods, out of view. He must have passed the thinner trail without even noticing it, when they'd come here on horseback. Curious, he took the new path, where the shade of the pine branches welcomed him like old friends.

What if he just... told Aziraphale the truth? Admitted that he was the serpent? Maybe then, he'd understand, and he'd — he'd what? Let go of an innocent life to protect his own? He shook his head, ducking under a low-hanging branch. No, he wouldn't. The most sensible thing to do would be to have Crowley imprisoned, banished, or put to death. His court and his people would push for the latter. The prophecies of Agnes Nutter were public knowledge, after all; he'd even heard children in the streets, playing out epic battles between the Queen and the terrible serpent of legend. It always ended the same way: the snake would be heroically vanquished, and the Queen would live happily ever after. At the end of the day, he was the villain of this story. 

"Hmph. Nothing new there," he muttered, shrugging it off. Telling Aziraphale the truth wasn't an option. Not only was it dangerous, he didn't even want to imagine the look of betrayal in his eyes, to know that his mortal enemy had been sat right under his nose the entire time, in the guise of a friend.

He eventually came to a wall of thick evergreen shrubs in the path, screening the sound of rushing water just beyond. He brushed them aside, slipping through into the sheltered alcove where a deep, clear spring at the foot of an outcrop of rock, over which tumbled a frothing waterfall. _This must be Aziraphale's bathing spot,_ he thought, coming to the edge of the water. He knelt down, gently touching the surface of the water, watching the ripples fan out across the pool, mingling with the ones thrown out by the waterfall. 

"Well. If it's good enough for a Queen, it's good enough for me," he said to himself, unbuttoning his shirt. 

He left his clothes by the edge, plunging into the water with only a slight gasp. It was freezing cold, but once he recovered his breath, it was the perfect reprieve from the relentless sun. He dove beneath the surface, swimming down toward the very deepest point, where the stone had dimpled under the force of the waterfall. There, with only the fractured rays of light from the surface to see by, he lay back beneath the powerful downward current. He closed his eyes. His body began to grow darker, thinner, sinuous and graceful, until a serpent coiled in the basin of the spring. In this form, he could hold his breath for days. It had always been more durable than his humanesque body. Now, he could relax. In the muted tranquility beneath the waves, with light moving and rippling like dust in the air, he let go of his irritation. For a while, he could be at peace on his own until, eventually, he felt ready to re-grow his legs and return to the palace. 

It took days. He didn't spend all that time as a snake, nor did he lie at the bottom of the pool for a week. He lounged at the edges, climbed the trees, and uncovered hidden spots where he could coil unseen in a nook in the stout cliff-face. It was a simpler type of life. It reminded him of home, apart from the restlessness in his mind. Aziraphale would be wondering where he'd gone. He lay at the top of the waterfall, watching it flow, sat just beyond the reach of the cool spray. Why couldn't he just _sleep_? He groaned, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't shut his mind down, not for more than a few minutes at a time before a half-forgotten dream jolted him awake. He missed his bed in the palace; the grass was a poor replacement. He missed having a warm drink in his hand in the evening; his cold blood didn't lend itself to this frigid water full-time. He missed some decent conversation. He missed the city. He missed seeing the land beyond those conifers at the edge of the spring, stood like a wall of his own making. 

He snarled, a frustrated shout breaking out from his throat. "Fine! Fine, I'm going," he shouted to no one in particular, stomping down the path and through the shrubs. 

He arrived at the foot of the tree late in the day. No one lingered in the gardens at this time, now the sun had begun to set. The main door was bolted shut, forcing him to scare the hell out of Petronius when he knocked on the service door to the kitchens. Anyone would be surprised to open a door to come face-to-face with the Dullahan, who by all accounts had been missing for a week. He gave a quiet thank-you and skirted past him, through the empty kitchen and into the palace proper. 

Even without Aziraphale by his side, he knew the halls well. The lights on the walls had begun to dim, casting twisted shadows from the plants and ornaments below. He paused at the foot of a particular spiral staircase, over which the royal seal sat carved into the arch. It led to one place: Aziraphale's room. It was late, but... he should probably let him know he'd come back, right? He'd only taken the first step when someone cleared their throat behind him. He froze.

Turning slowly, he faced whoever had caught him. "Oh. It's you," he said sourly. 

"Calling on the Queen at this time?" Gabriel said accusingly, his hands folded in front of him. He tutted. "Very bad manners."

"I'm sure he'll let me know," he said, about to turn his back and walk up the staircase anyway.

"He didn't look for you."

Crowley stopped. "What?" he said, exasperated. 

Gabriel raised his chin higher, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. "He didn't bother sending out any search parties. You left, and he carried on as usual. No one thought you were coming back," he said. He shrugged, faux-friendliness covering his vindictive words. "Just thought you'd like to know."

Crowley didn't respond, letting the realisation sit heavy on his back. Aziraphale must've thought he'd just up and left, without so much as a word of warning, even without his horse. "I wouldn't just leave without a goodbye," he said sharply. "Very bad manners, that."

He smiled humourlessly. "Clever," he said. "So, why are you back? I understand the Queen was quite upset with you, when you stormed off to have a little tantrum in the woods."

He flexed his hand, reminding himself that he wasn't allowed to punch Aziraphale's top advisor. "That's really none of your business," he said.

"Why? You may be the Dullahan, but in this realm, you're nothing but a royal pet," he said. "Sometime very soon, there'll be a day you're no longer welcome here."

"How would you know?" he barked, finally losing his composure. He grabbed onto the archway for dear life, grounding himself in the sensation of smooth timber beneath his palms. He breathed heavily through his anger. Gabriel stood back slightly, his eyes calculating the scene, realising that he'd touched a nerve. 

"What? All of a sudden, you care about what the people think of you?" he sneered. Crowley looked away, almost guiltily, and said nothing. Gabriel narrowed his eyes, sensing something else. His eyes flicked up to the royal seal over Crowley's head. "Oh... unless, this isn't about them. This is about him. Isn't it?"

Crowley's jaw tightened. "Stop talking," he said quietly, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat. 

"No, no, this is too good," he said, grinning broadly. "What is this? Admiration, loyalty? Could it even be... love?"

Crowley lunged. He wrenched Gabriel against the wall by his shirt, digging his knuckles into his shoulders, feeling the satisfying snap of threads under the force of his grip. That face, that stupid, _arrogant_ face, was still smirking. "What part of stop talking didn't you get?"

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, a knowing glint in his eye. A new flash of anger flickered over Crowley's face as he realised that he'd given himself away. Gabriel snorted derisively. "That hideous pet name suddenly makes a lot more sense."

"I could kill you before you even had a chance to scream," he snarled, his voice low, not wanting it to carry up to Aziraphale's bedroom door. 

"And what would your beloved _angel_ think of you then?" he said, making no move to struggle. Even with a metaphorical blade held to his throat, he still had the upper hand. "Hm? You think he'd forgive you?"

He didn't move for a moment. He held Gabriel's eyes, hoping to find even the tiniest hint of fear... There was nothing; just cold, self-assured arrogance. Reluctantly, he let go, drawing sharply away from him. He dusted off his sleeves. Anger still simmered in his gut. He'd never murdered anyone in cold blood, but if he had to take a shot at it, he already knew who'd be at the top of his list. Gabriel stood up from the wall, still sneering.

"Look at you. The great and mighty Dullahan, reduced to a lovesick puppy," he said, straightening his posture and putting on a synthetic pitying voice. "I'd laugh, but... this is just sad."

Crowley stared at him, unmoving. An agitated expression was carved into his face, just waiting to crack and reveal the vulnerability underneath. Gabriel knew. His most humiliating secret, one he'd been trying to hide even from himself, and Gabriel knew it... He was in love with Aziraphale. He was hideously, hopelessly, inescapably in love. 

"Listen, buddy, I’m going to level with you... You don’t deserve him," Gabriel said. He gave him a pat on the shoulder, as if they were nothing but old friends. It was all Crowley could do not to break his wrist. "But I hear Prince Beelzebub isn't married. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW it feels good to finally post this. I made myself wait 2 days extra because I posted early last time and the wait was killing me. Hope you enjoyed, and as always I’d be glad to know if you liked it <3
> 
> (Back to the usual 5 day schedule again now, for a while at least!)


	14. From Him To Me To You

Crowley didn't dare knock on Aziraphale's door that night. He was shaken up, angry, and sick with hate. He raged against the notion that Gabriel was right, that his love was a lost cause from the start, and yet he was still unable to shake it. He'd always known it. Hearing it out loud was just that final push to make it real. Over the top of that, there was the layer of guilt which told him it shouldn't even matter. If he really loved Aziraphale, he should leave as soon as he could. His safety should be more important, and it was, but yet again he'd been trapped by circumstance. He didn't sleep that night, much like his nights by the waterfall, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get a restful night until he faced up to his anxieties. He had to speak to Aziraphale. 

He knocked on his door the next morning. He waited a moment, and Aziraphale hesitantly answered, clearly unused to having callers to his bedroom since Crowley had been gone. "Crowley," he gasped.

"Hi," he said, his arms tightly crossed as he waited on the threshold. 

"O - oh, come inside, dear," he said, almost desperately, then hesitated. "If... if you would like to..."

Crowley smiled a little, warmed as he realised that Aziraphale was making sure to give him a choice. He was trying not to repeat their argument. "Love to," he said, stepping into the room and sitting down on the stool by the vanity. Aziraphale stood restlessly at the foot of his bed. 

"Where on earth have you been?" he said, a little agitated, but a little relieved. "I was awfully worried. I was wondering if I ought to have sent out a search party, but I - well, I feared it might come across a smidge... overbearing."

He tapped his nails idly on the table. Well, that was one worry put to rest, at least. "Just taking some time to myself," he said. There was a long pause, with a very large elephant in the room. "... how's Azrael?"

"Very well," he said, almost inaudibly, adjusting the sling holding his arm slightly. He avoided his gaze. "Mercury dotes on her, you know."

He nodded, remaining neutral. He could tell Aziraphale was on-guard, still expecting another outburst. "He'll have his hands full, then," he said, then frowned. "Or his... hooves, I suppose."

Aziraphale relaxed minutely, and went to say something. Crowley looked up expectantly, and he faltered. He'd been about to address the issue directly, but the words stuck in his throat. He closed his mouth again, and opted for a small nod instead. "Yes, rather," he said. He glanced over to the balcony. "Um... I was just about to have some breakfast, if you'd like to...?"

"I'm not allowed on the balcony, remember?" he said gently, carefully hiding his own crumbling heart. "Wouldn't want anyone to think we've been... you know."

Aziraphale gulped. "Ah. I suppose you're right," he said. "Perhaps I could bring it inside."

He shook his head, hearing the reluctance in his voice. Instead, he suggested that he move his stool so he was sat just inside the door, where they could still talk without Crowley being seen. It was nice, having him back. Aziraphale hadn't just missed having a friend; he'd missed his voice, his laugh, his dark clothes that he always wore no matter how odd he looked in a Seelie realm... It gnawed at him, being unable to look at him across the table like two friends should, rather than this ridiculous secretive setup. Would this be how they lived, from now until Crowley departed? Always hidden, acting like proximity itself was something shameful? It was enough to bring a tear to his eye. Luckily, Crowley didn't see. He wiped it away before he looked around the doorframe. 

They talked about what had happened while they'd been apart. Crowley said he'd lived in the wild for a week, doing nothing. Aziraphale had a busy political week, but spent most of his breakfast gleefully gossiping about his courtiers. Crowley soon began to loosen up. He was laughing again, and Aziraphale couldn't believe his luck. He hadn't even been sure he would see Crowley again, let alone be able to share such things with him. Some part of Aziraphale felt hopelessly indebted to him; what had he done, to deserve someone who stood by him like this?

"Oh, hello. What's this?" Crowley said, breaking away from their conversation for a moment. He'd only just noticed the open bureau on his left, whose desk was littered with jewels, silver and gold. He even spotted the yellow diamond bracelet that Gabriel had given as a springtime gift. It wasn’t that which had attracted his interest, though. 

"What?" Aziraphale said, twisting around. 

Crowley held up the golden chain necklace which he'd spotted on the bureau. "How come I've never seen you wear this?" he said, admiring the links. It was simple, understated, but undeniably beautiful. "It looks right up your alley."

"Maybe so, but my shirt-collars have buttons for a reason, and why wear such a lovely thing only to hide it?" he said dismissively. That neck-chain did look familiar, though. He couldn't quite put his finger on how he'd first come across it. "Where did you get it from?"

"Found it lying around," he said distractedly, moving it so the sun gleamed on the gold. 

Aziraphale fidgeted. "Why don't you keep it?" he suggested tentatively. Material gifts seemed like a poor apology for what he'd done the week before, but it was a start, if nothing else. "I think it would look rather fetching on you."

"What, really? You're sure?" he said. Aziraphale nodded. "Well... don't mind if I do, then."

Uriel, generally speaking, had no interest in the Dullahan. She found him exasperating, rude and standoffish, not to mention the fact he was Unseelie. When Gabriel told her that Crowley had fallen in love with Aziraphale, she'd been perversely amused by the whole situation. No doubt he'd skulk around at the Queen's heels up until the moment he left, like a dog begging for scraps from the table. A smirk curled her lips. Unrequited affection might finally teach him his place. She made her way through the gardens thinking of this, when she spotted Crowley lounging against a tree trunk in the shade. He looked deep in thought, fiddling with something on his shirt. As she drew closer, she saw the glint of metal. Gold. He was playing with a chain necklace; a very familiar one. Uriel's breath caught. She knew exactly where she'd seen it before, but what was it doing around _his_ neck? She sped up, anxious not to be caught staring. 

She barged into the conference room. Michael, Gabriel and Sandalphon had been inside, discussing whatever menial duty Aziraphale had relegated that month. They all turned. "Can we help you, Uriel?" Gabriel said dryly. 

"Do you remember last spring? You gave Aziraphale a golden chain," she said, coming forward to lean heavily on the table. 

He shared a baffled glance with Sandalphon. "Of course..." he said, then began to grin. "Is he finally wearing it?"

"No," she said grimly. "Crowley is."

His face fell. He got to his feet, the chair scraping harshly on the floor. "You're certain? It was the same chain?" he said, looming over her. She nodded. His lip curled for a moment, affronted. 

"He must have stolen it," Sandalphon spoke up, more confident than he had any right to be. Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Gabriel jabbed a finger in Sandalphon's direction.

"Good. I hadn't thought of that," he said, wagging his finger. Michael raised a brow incredulously. "Very quick thinking, Sandalphon. Aziraphale will want to know about this."

"He would have needed access to his bedroom," Michael said, uncertain. "You can't simply jump to conclusions and accuse him of theft. If nothing else, launch an inquest before you start to — "

He scoffed, halfway out the room already. "Why else would he have it, Michael?"

Yet again, Aziraphale was minding his own business when Gabriel stormed into his study. He startled, looking up guiltily from the book he'd had open instead of his official paperwork. Gabriel usually made some thinly veiled comment about royal duty if he caught him slacking like this, but today, he strode right up to the desk with a slightly manic twinkle in his eye. Aziraphale paled. He leaned back, fearing some forthright marriage proposal, after so many years delaying it. He gave a tentative smile.

"Something the matter, Gabriel?" he said, quickly shoving aside his leisure reading and pulling across some very important-looking letters with his good arm. "It's just that I'm terribly busy, as you can see."

Gabriel leaned heavily on the desk with a victorious smirk. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sire..." he said, with a look in his eye that suggested otherwise, "but your Dullahan has betrayed your trust."

"Pardon? _My_ Dulla - ? He isn't mine," he said, flushing pink. "What - What could possibly make you say such a thing?"

Gabriel twitched, irritated. "Your majesty... That wasn't what I was getting at," he said through gritted teeth. Aziraphale looked blank; his brain had ground to a halt immediately upon hearing _your Dullahan._ "He's a thief."

He gasped. "That is a very serious accusation," he said, stomach twisting. He would've crossed his arms, if one wasn't broken. His immediate response was scorn. "I hope you have some evidence!"

"Uriel saw him wearing the golden chain I gave to you last spring," he said. Aziraphale's eyes widened in sudden realisation. "As far as we can tell, he must have broken into your room to get it. Who knows what else he took? He ought to be arrested immediately."

He gulped, mortified. He knew he'd seen that chain somewhere before, of course! It had been an old courting gift. How could he have been so careless? "Now, Gabriel, let's not get ahead of ourselves..."

"What else is there to do? He's Unseelie. Evil is in his blood; he can't help himself," he said. He gestured to the door, to wherever Crowley was lurking in the palace beyond. "He must be stopped before he commits a worse crime."

"He is not a thief!" he cried shrilly, overwhelmed by the situation. "For goodness' sake, I gave him that necklace. It wasn't stolen."

Gabriel stared, the cords in his neck twitching. Outrage poured through his every nerve. He set his jaw tightly, biting back the urge to shout at the Queen. "You gave him one of my gifts, in _spring_?" he said, giving a tight-lipped smile. Aziraphale flinched.

"I suppose I did."

"I have to assume that it wasn't intended as a courting gift," he said, leaning heavily on the implications of that sentence. 

"Why not?" he blurted out. Gabriel's eyebrows shot up, and Aziraphale quaked slightly, but stubbornly held his gaze. He was tired of being bullied. He wanted, just this once, to have the upper hand in more than rank. He wanted to be able to contradict him, to make his own choice, to say something scandalous.

"He isn't a proper match. You have nothing to gain by marrying someone like that," he said harshly, knowing that he was wrong. The Dullahan would be a controversial choice, to be sure, but he'd make an enviable consort, and an even more fearsome king. He only hoped Aziraphale wasn't thinking that way. "He's done nothing to deserve this kind of attention. You outrank him a thousand times over."

Aziraphale turned up his nose, putting on a false front of confidence. "I happen to think Crowley is a fine gentleman. If — hypothetically — I was in the mind for marriage, he'd be perfectly worthy of consideration," he said, his heart battering against his ribcage as he spoke. Good lord was he really saying this out loud? To Gabriel's _face?_ His nerve failed him for a moment, the thrill giving way to anxiety. "Which is besides the point, obviously. I've made it very clear that I don't intend to marry just yet."

"So it wasn't a courting gift?" he pushed. There was a stern note in his voice that Aziraphale took offence to, but felt he'd pushed the limits of acceptability too much already in this short conversation.

"No, of course not," he said quietly, a marked downturn on his lips. "I apologise for giving him your neckchain. I shall have to keep better track of my possessions in future."

"Thank you," he said, tense. He excused himself with as much politesse as he could manage, seething. This was not in the plan. What had Crowley done? How had he blown in from the woods, for the second time, and straight back into Aziraphale's good graces? He'd bypassed every obstacle, flouted every rule, laughed in the face of decency... He bashed his way back into the conference room in a rage. Michael, Sandalphon and Uriel lurched in fright. He immediately launched into an angry account of what Aziraphale had said.

The three nobles listened in stunned silence. The implications were wide-reaching. The chain wasn't relevant _now,_ perhaps, but it had revealed a very important detail. If Aziraphale decided to start looking for a husband, Crowley could present himself as a suitor, and would be very welcome to do so. What's more, he probably would. He already loved Aziraphale; if he ever found out that he had a shot, well... He'd take it, surely. Gabriel paced the room like a caged lion while visions of Crowley lounging on the throne flashed behind his eyes. He ground his teeth. That seat was rightfully his, and he would let no one take that away from him. 

"Crowley is only a guest in the Queendom," Michael said, trying to smooth the waters. "He will leave eventually."

"Not soon enough," Uriel muttered. "He'll be here months longer, until his horse is fit to travel. Aziraphale may change his mind about marriage before then."

"If the Dullahan doesn't seduce him first," Sandalphon added distastefully. Gabriel curled his lip. He wouldn't put it past Crowley to try it, just to spit in the face of tradition even more. The more concerning thing was, Aziraphale might let him. 

”Watch what you’re implying!” Michael cried. “Azir — I mean, the Queen isn’t helpless. Don’t be so insulting.”

”You have too much faith in him, Michael,” Uriel said, watching him splutter in indignation. “We’re here to make sure he doesn’t stray from the right path. That’s our job. Do you _want_ to see him falling prey to an Unseelie?” 

He sighed, hanging his head slightly. “No,” he said. “But we should tread carefully. There’s a fine line between politics and treason.”

"It can’t be treason if we’re working in the Queen’s best interests,” Gabriel said without a doubt in his mind. Michael hummed in reluctant agreement. "Aziraphale just needs a reminder about what being Unseelie means."

Crowley fell into the habit of toying with the chain around his neck, mostly without realising. Aziraphale didn't have the heart to take it back. He didn't tell him where the chain had come from, and simply hoped he'd ignore the whispers behind his back. He did. Crowley certainly didn't enjoy the gossip, but as long as they were talking about his new jewellery, they were no closer to seeing his true reptilian nature. Hiding his other form was his biggest concern. So long as he didn't have to shed his skin before leaving the realm, he should be fine. No one would ever know. 

Spring felt as if it lasted forever, especially when the weather never changed, and there was no sign of new growth anywhere. Everything was already grown. Nothing was new; the realm was paradise, just as it was, and even after spending nearly six months in this Queendom he still hadn't quite settled to the idea. His hair was getting a little longer now, so that he had to brush it back out of his eyes. 

He visited Azrael often. Her belly was steadily growing, day by day, with the life that he'd once tried to extinguish. He felt a pang of guilt every time he looked at her. It had taken days for her to trust him again, after what he'd done. He gently brushed her coat for hours one afternoon, trying to make it up to her. The stable-hands saw a softer side to the Dullahan, one that even Aziraphale had only caught flashes of. They were always happy to talk to him about the horses, and how Azrael's pregnancy was coming along. They'd never delivered a half-unicorn before. 

He fell into a routine. He'd eat meals with Aziraphale*, then wander over to the pastures and back again. Sometimes, he'd spend an afternoon in the city, if the Them took an afternoon off. Today was one of those days. Wensleydale dragged him by the hand down toward the houses clustered at the foot of the palace, where the others were setting up a game of marbles. They'd taken it upon themselves to teach him all the games they knew, when he'd admitted he never had a childhood. He simply fell out of the sky, already fully-grown. 

*Or rather, he'd watch Aziraphale eat meals.

Mrs Young found them hunched over the game at the foot of the garden, like she had many times before. It had given her a terrible fright, the first time she'd spotted the Dullahan there. She'd quickly learnt there was nothing to fear. The more she'd seen of Mr Crowley, the more she noticed the hesitant uncertainty behind most things he did. He was a solitary fairy by nature, and these were his earliest experiences of belonging anywhere (and yes, she was of the opinion that he did belong). Her apprehension quickly dissolved into a maternal instinct. Crowley didn't have a mother — at least he hadn't, not until Deidre Young graciously appointed herself. 

She set down a tray of biscuits and juice on the ground beside Crowley's knee. "Who's winning this time?"

"Wensley," he replied, in the voice of a man who had lost more games than he could count, and to a group of children no less. 

She chuckled, patting him on the shoulder as she straightened up again. "You'll get them one day, Mr Crowley," she said. He gave an incredulous grunt. "Have a biscuit."

He obediently took one from the plate and began to nibble on it. She smiled. He didn't eat enough, in her opinion. "Thanks," he said. 

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" she said, gesturing back toward the house. He looked up at her, surprised. "I'm no palace cook, but I always make too much. There's plenty for you."

"Uh... no, thanks," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Are you sure?" she said. "A nice humble home-cooked meal might do you good. You're all skin and bones."

"Yep. I'm fine," he said, ducking his head slightly. He didn't want to be ungrateful, but he wouldn't need his next big meal for a while yet. 

"It's venison," she bargained. He gulped, swiping his tongue around his mouth as if he could already taste it. He did like venison...

He shook his head. "Really, Mrs Young, I'm not hungry," he said, and at least that much was true. She looked unimpressed, and Adam snickered as he watched the great and mighty Dullahan begin to crumble under his mother's infamous hard stare. "But, er, I guess I could make some room..."

The chair beside Aziraphale was empty at the table that night. Or at least it was, until Gabriel spotted his chance and moved back into it. That was insult to injury. Aziraphale had thought he and Crowley had been getting along rather well these last few weeks, laughing and taking breaks together. They'd picked up where they'd left off, with Crowley scribing for him until his arm had healed and he'd abandoned the sling. Where had Crowley got to? He'd hardly missed a mealtime since he got back from living rough for a week. Aziraphale tried to recall what he'd said to him this morning. He hoped he hadn't offended him without realising...

"Something bothering you, your majesty?" Gabriel asked, sitting in the chair which Aziraphale had come to think of as Crowley's.

He swallowed his mouthful of food, and tried to brush him off. "Nothing important," he said.

He fidgeted as he stared for a moment longer, scanning for cracks in his armour. "It's bad manners, wouldn't you say, for Crowley to simply not attend dinner?" he said pointedly, sipping his wine. "Unless he explained himself to you, of course."

"He's not obligated to eat here every night," he said, a hint of defensiveness entering his tone. He gathered another forkful of rice. "Nor do I have to keep track of his every move."

He shrugged, as if he understood. "Naturally," he said. "I doubt you'd want to, anyway. Who knows what he gets up to in the city?"

Aziraphale's brow furrowed slightly. "Are you implying something, Gabriel?"

He held up his hands. "I'm making an educated guess," he said. "The Unseelie are known for their vices."

"Pardon?" he said. Gabriel resisted a smile, knowing he'd tweaked a nerve. 

He pulled a dismissive face. "He's probably gone looking for some... simple companionship, let's say," he said, watching his face from the corner of his eye while he turned back to his meal. He'd been looking to drive a wedge between them since the day Crowley arrived, and this was only the beginning. He had to make sure Crowley's absence tonight stuck in his head. Judging by the way his face tightened with agitated jealousy, step one was complete.

While he was too busy getting wrapped up in his own head, Gabriel leaned over to Michael. "It's time," he whispered. 

"Are you sure this is necessary?" he murmured back, with an uncertain glance toward Aziraphale, who was engaged in a half-hearted conversation with the courtier to his left. "There must be another way, something less... extreme."

"Desperate times, Michael. We’re doing this for him," he said casually, trying not to draw attention. "Think of the greater good.”

With a sigh, he nodded. Gabriel had always been the one willing to make the leap when no one else would, and he'd never led them wrong before. Michael usually preferred to let events take their course; leading was Aziraphale’s job, after all. Gabriel had always been eager to share that, though. Privately, Michael had always suspected he'd either make a great king or a tyrant, and he'd never quite decided which one. That was half the reason he'd never given up on his own attempts to win Aziraphale's hand, though he knew he didn’t love him as a husband should. He could still be a friend, though. He’d been here since the dawn of Aziraphale’s reign, and never wavered in his loyalty, never deviating from his leader. He’d watched the Queendom be built up from the dirt, and now this interloping Unseelie fae had come along to threaten the balance and order that had been so hard to achieve. However this ended, they needed Crowley gone. Aziraphale would be safer that way, the realm more secure, and things would settle back to normality again. Things would be better. He leaned over to Uriel, muttering something, who then passed the message along to Sandalphon. He smiled thinly, and quietly left the table. 

He slipped out of the dining room, making his way quietly through the halls. They were dim and quiet, with his footsteps echoing ahead of him. The palace was deserted. Why wouldn’t it be, after all? The Queendom had been at peace for millennia, and Aziraphale was well-loved by his people. The only guards still on-duty were by the main doors. The rest had gone back to their families for the night, cloistered by a warm hearth somewhere in the citadel. Sandalphon came to the doors of the throne room, gently easing them open and peering inside. 

It was pitch black. The dark impression of the throne watched as he slipped inside, conjuring a small light between his palms. He squinted, holding it out. The pedestal stood beside the throne as it always had, innocuous despite its significance. He hurried up the steps, lifting the lid of the glass-covered box on top. The crown gleamed under the faint luminescence...


	15. The Crown

Aziraphale was relieved to see Crowley in his private dining room for breakfast the next morning. He didn't seem irritated, which was a good start. Aziraphale sat in awkward silence for a while, peeling his boiled egg, before finally plucking up the nerve to ask. He was sure Gabriel was just trying to bother him out of misplaced jealousy. 

"Where were you last night?" he asked, and winced. That sounded too demanding. "You missed dinner."

"I was at Deidre's," he said airily. He sipped from his teacup. 

"Deidre?" he said, struck with the sudden fear that Gabriel had been right after all. But — But why would he care? Crowley was just his friend. Something buzzed in the back of his mind, mumbling in protest, which he heartily ignored. It was a silly thought. 

Crowley glanced up, surprised by the sharp note in his voice. "Yeah. You must've met her, right?" he said. 

Flustered, he distracted himself with preparing his tea, and tried to take control of the situation. "W - Well, of course," he said, although he had no idea who this woman could be. He knew lots of Deidres. It was a popular name. He even had a low-ranking courtier, Lady Deidre; he tried to recall if she was at dinner last night... "Have fun, did you?"

"Uh... yeah, it was all right," he said, bemused. "You're acting a bit funny this morning. Did something happen at dinner last night?"

"No. Perfectly normal," he said, aggressively buttering his toast. So, he _had_ been with a someone. A woman. Hmph. He could've at least told him he wouldn't be coming to dinner. It was only common courtesy, and that was the problem here, really (it wasn't). He'd have hoped that Crowley wouldn't just — just leave him with Gabriel, without a word of warning! 

He didn't have much longer to think on it. The door slammed open, and a breathless guard stumbled in. "Your majesty, forgive the intrusion," he gasped. Aziraphale's heart jolted, sensing bad news. "It's... It's the King's crown. It's missing."

He gasped. "What?" he said, dropping everything and dashing for the door. Crowley was hot on his heels. 

They burst into the throne room together, and the crowd of people around the pedestal quickly scattered. Aziraphale ran up the steps, laying his eyes on the empty box for himself. Crowley heard his sharp inhalation at the sight; to him, it just looked like a circular indent in the red velvet lining, but this clearly stood for much more. He recalled what the guard said. He’d noticed the box before, but only now did he realise it wasn’t the Queen’s, but intended for the would-be king. He looked at Aziraphale's stricken face. It reminded him of that day when they'd narrowly avoided war with the Pine Realm; he'd frozen up again, overwhelmed with the horror he was facing.

"Who saw it last?" Crowley spoke up, covering for him by turning to look at the court. All eyes turned to him, hesitant and bemused, unsure if they ought to listen to him. His lip curled. "Well? We haven't got all century!"

"It was there yesterday, during court session," Uriel said, looking expectantly at Aziraphale. "Sire? What should we do?"

That snapped him out of it. "Erm. Mobilise the guards. All of them, have them searching high and low," he said, clearly shaken. There was a long silence.

"And close the city. No one gets in, no one gets out," Crowley added. "If there's a thief, they're not getting away."

Gabriel pushed his way to the forefront. "You don't give the orders here," he said. Crowley was about to bite back when Aziraphale interrupted. 

"Listen to him. He's right," he said, beginning to recover some composure as a plan began to emerge. "I'll close all the fairy rings, too. Until the crown is found, the whole Queendom is under lock and key."

"I'll notify the gatehouse," Michael said, walking briskly out of the room. Sandalphon volunteered to muster the guards, even those who were off-duty, though it was probably because he liked using the horn of summons. As he left, Aziraphale's eyes swept the court. They were in disarray, nervous, and taken off-guard. 

"Gabriel, organise the court to make a sweep of the palace," Aziraphale said, hoping to give them something to do instead of panic. He didn't believe for a second that the thief was stupid enough to hide the crown within these walls, but he'd look like an idiot himself if they had. Gabriel hesitated. "Well? Chop chop!"

"What about the rest? Outside the palace?" he said, hoping to snag that job as well. He needed to control the discovery of the evidence he’d planted. Custom dictated that if the evidence was sufficiently damning, they could skip the trial and proceed straight to prosecution. Gabriel was counting on that. It was the only way he could avoid Aziraphale binding Crowley by name to the oath of honesty, and pulling the whole plot down. 

Someone cleared their throat. Aziraphale looked over, recognising Lady Deidre with a flash of jealous spite. "I wouldn't mind organising — "

"Not you!" he barked. Lady Deidre jumped, shying away in surprise, and he felt several baffled stares from around the room. He cleared his throat awkwardly, realising how uncharacteristic that had been."My apologies, that was an overreaction. What I meant to say was - erm - that Crowley can arrange that."

"I can?" Crowley said, taken aback himself by Aziraphale’s harsh reaction.

"Yes," he said, beckoning him along as he made a dash toward the main doors. "Hop to it, now! No time to lose!"

As the two of them turned the corner, neither noticed the bitter purple glare on their backs. Yet again, Crowley had put a spanner in Gabriel's plans without even realising it. No matter. He'd planted the crown, and it was sure to be found before Crowley had time to realise he was being framed. Even if it was out of his hands, he hoped that whichever soldier found it would jump to the conclusion Gabriel was hoping for, and things could still progress as planned. 

Wensleydale was an early riser. He always had been; he liked to take his time with a carefully planned-out morning, combing his hair and having a healthy breakfast before heading out to make a good start on his work. Pepper, not so much. She forgave him for dragging her out of bed so early, though, since he'd brought snacks for them to have on their way over to the pastures. He knew she wouldn't have had time to eat, so he made sure he had something to hand. 

They were the first to arrive at the stables that morning. "I'm not surprised. It's barely dawn," Pepper complained, tossing the apple core into a compost heap. 

"But if we get everything done before noon, we can have an early lunch," he replied cheerily, unlatching the tack shed. He grabbed them a rake each. "And we'll have more free time in the afternoon."

Rolling her eyes, she begrudgingly accepted his point. They set to work on the first stable, Mercury's, laying out the shavings in a thick layer across the floor for him to come in later. He was due an appointment with the farrier, so he'd need the stable while he waited. "We should do Azrael's too," Pepper said, already unbolting the door. "He won't go anywhere without her."

A shaft of light speared the darkness as she nudged the door open. Her eye immediately landed on the odd pile of hay in the corner. "Er... what's that doing there?" Wensleydale asked, tilting his head. "There haven't even been any horses in here for weeks."

Pepper poked at the hay with her rake, poised for something to come running out. Nothing did. With a shrug, she took a forkful and went to move it, only for something heavy to fall out of the pile. "Huh," she said, dropping the fork. The item was a small burlap bag. Curious, she tugged at the drawstring, feeling her friend peering over her shoulder. "Holy shit!"

"That's the King's crown!" Wensley cried. "What's it doing in Azrael's stable?"

Pepper stared at the circlet, taken in for a moment by the finely crafted golden tree-branches that formed the crown, with delicate gold blossoms dotted amongst them. "Crowley's the last person who came in here," she mumbled. Azrael wouldn't let anyone but him lead her into the stable, so everyone else left this one well alone. 

"Maybe Aziraphale wanted to put it here, for safekeeping...?" he suggested, already knowing it was a flimsy idea. 

"Let's go ask him," she said, pulling the drawstring tight again and putting it inside Wensley's backpack. "If that's right, we'll just put it back."

They left the stable block, heading back in the direction of the citadel. They'd barely reached the wall before a troop of guards emerged from the gate, marching with purpose down the cobbled road. The two children shared a worried glance. The soldiers passed them by without a glance, only for them to be halted at the gate into the city. 

"Sorry, kids. No movement in or out of the city. Queen's orders," said the guard on the right. 

"Why?" Wensley asked. He had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the contents of his backpack. 

"The king's crown has been stolen," she replied. "Mister Crowley — or, er, Lieutenant Crowley, is it? Was he actually promoted, or...? He didn't say. Ahem, anyway, no matter. The Dullahan is directing the search. No one gets in without his permission."

"Tell him we're here then," Pepper said, crossing her arms firmly. Wensleydale shot her a glance; wasn't she listening? The crown had been stolen, and they'd found it in Crowley's stable. He's the last person they should be talking to! 

The two guards glanced nervously at one another. "Y - You want us to go and _talk_ to him?" said the other. 

"That's what I said. What, you aren't scared, are you?" she retorted. That did the trick. The guard puffed out his chest, fervently denied it, and marched off to find his new temporary commander. 

Crowley arrived at the gate, looking hassled. "What are you two doing out there?" he said immediately upon laying eyes on them. "Get inside. There could be anyone skulking about out there. Haven't you heard what happened?"

They trotted past the two guards, and were quickly shepherded inside the gatehouse. Pepper grasped Crowley's arm, tugging him to a halt. "Course we have. We need to talk to you," she said. "It's important."

"Look, I'm sure it is, but I'm busy," he said, trying to peel her hand off, to no avail. "I need to find this bloody crown before Aziraphale pulls all his hair out."

"That's what we need to talk to you about," she hissed under her breath. Wensleydale tensed, but nodded along. They owed it to Crowley to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least at first. He found it hard to believe he’d steal it. 

Crowley's brow furrowed. “Right,” he said, glancing around, reaching for the nearest door. It was the armoury, whose many racks of swords and spears formed a maze of iron and steel. They slipped through, finding a bench in one corner, concealed in an alcove of weapon-racks on all sides. "What is it?" he said, in a low voice. 

Wensleydale shrugged off his backpack, and took out the bag. "We found this in Azrael's stable," he said, gently opening it. Crowley's jaw dropped as the golden crown reflected the light back onto his face. 

"Wait, _Azrael's_ stable? Are you sure?" he said when his words caught up to him. "What the fff — uh, hell was it doing in there?"

"That’s what we were hoping you'd tell us," Wensley said, looking uncertainly at Pepper, who kept a steely mask. "The soldiers told us it was stolen."

It took a moment for Crowley to realise what he was getting at. He spluttered indignantly. "I didn't steal it!" he said. He gestured at it flippantly. "What would I want with some sparkly hat, anyway?"

"Dunno. You tell us," Pepper said.

"Oi, watch the attitude, madam," he said, curling his lip and jabbing a finger at her. "I have nothing to do with this. Someone's trying to stitch me up... and I bet I know who."

The two children looked at one another for a moment, and all the pieces suddenly seemed to slot into place. "Gabriel," Wensley and Pepper said in unison. 

"Bingo," he said, sitting back against the wall with a groan. "I can't tell Aziraphale that, though, can I? We've got no proof. This looks bad enough as it is, finding the crown in my stable. What's he going to think?"

"What if... what if we didn't _technically_ find it in Azrael's stable?" Wensleydale said slowly, forming a plan. Crowley tilted his head, intrigued. "If you let us back out, we can sneak back and swap the nameplates, and then it's not Azrael's stable anymore. Then we can give the crown back, and you can just pretend you knew nothing about it."

He opened his mouth, about to rebuff the plan, but hesitated. "You know... that’s not half bad..."

Aziraphale sat on his throne, fiddling with his waistcoat and glancing at the empty box on the pedestal every now and then. It felt wrong. The crown had always sat next to his throne, waiting for the right person, waiting for the king he'd always hoped for... It was precious to him, more so than his own crown, which he rarely wore. He'd been sure to check on that too, and was glad to find it safe and sound right where he'd left it. The court completed their sweep of the palace, finding nothing. Gabriel had been talking in his ear ever since he came back. Crowley had returned, too, after dispatching the guard, and seemed strangely preoccupied with his own thoughts. 

"It must have happened last night, after the daytime guard went home. We should start verifying alibis," Gabriel said, confident he could silence anyone who could confirm Crowley's alibi, if he had one. He just needed to get to them first. Aziraphale stared blankly at the far wall, and Crowley paced the floor pensively. Gabriel took a breath, about to push the issue, when there was a commotion outside the throne room doors. Aziraphale tensed, snapping back to reality.

The doors opened a crack, and two children slipped through, followed by the bellowing of the guards as they tried in vain to catch them. Aziraphale sighed, rubbing his temples. "Pepper, Wensleydale... Now is not the time," he said. The guards rushing in after them hesitated, waiting to see if the Queen was going to continue his sentence. 

Pepper rolled her eyes, to the disgust of the watching nobles. Crowley smirked. "Show him, Wensley."

In one smooth movement, Wensleydale pulled the crown out of the bag in his hand. Aziraphale leapt out of his chair in surprise, his jaw slack. "Good lord!" he cried, running down the steps. He plucked it out of his hands, turning it around, checking for damage. Gabriel's eyebrows climbed high. "Where on earth did you find it?"

"In a stable," Wensley said. "We were just getting an early start on work, and it was there in the corner."

Gabriel cleared his throat eagerly. "Which one?"

Pepper looked him dead in the eye. "Mercury's," she said. His face twitched, his eyes flicking toward Crowley for a split second. The Dullahan stared back, those dark lenses daring him to challenge what she’d said. Gabriel shut his mouth. He knew.

"Well!" Aziraphale huffed, taking the crown back up to the pedestal. "Whoever this thief is, they are remarkably bold. What could they have possibly hoped to achieve?"

"We'll know once we find them," Gabriel said, hoping still to point the finger at Crowley. He ought to have known that someone would interfere! Those children were more loyal to Crowley than he'd thought. They must have told him first, but he couldn't contradict them, not without giving himself away. "Was anyone from court unaccounted for last night?"

"Nobody," Aziraphale replied, closing the lid on the crown's box with a relieved sigh. Gabriel frowned, sharing a small glance with Sandalphon.

"Are you certain?" he said pointedly. Even Crowley, who knew full well he was implicit target, looked vaguely surprised. 

"Quite," he said unwaveringly, and that was the end of that. When even Gabriel was astounded into silence, no one dared speak up against the Queen. 

That evening, Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon and Michael gathered in the deserted conference room. The air was tense. Gabriel sat with a sour expression, his face half-lit by the lantern on the table. All other lights were off. This was a secret meeting, and the last thing they needed was to be spotted like this after dark. Michael fidgeted uncomfortably, taking an immediate distaste to this underhand operation.

“Someone lied,” Sandalphon observed. 

“It was those kids,” Gabriel said gruffly. He’d been keeping up a happy front, flashing false smiles all afternoon while everyone celebrated the return of the crown. “They’re more loyal to the Dullahan than their own Queen. They must have taken it straight to him.”

 _Or they knew he was innocent,_ Michael thought privately. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d risk saying aloud, not to Gabriel. “Perhaps we ought to lie low for a while,” he suggested. “There will be an inquest.”

Uriel fixed him with an unnerving stare. “We won’t be discovered,” she said, “provided we stand together.”

He held her stare. “Which I’m sure we will,” he said evenly. He wouldn’t be intimidated, not by her. “There will be consequences for everyone, if not.”

“Of course we won’t be caught. That’s not our main concern,” Gabriel cut in sharply. The tension between Michael and Uriel dispersed reluctantly. “We were too indirect this time. Too shy. We need to go for the throat.”

Michael flinched. “You can’t be suggesting that we — that we kill him?” he said, horrified. “I respect you, Gabriel, but that is too far, on the basis of the mere _possibility_ that Aziraphale might be tempted — ”

“Not murder, Michael,” he interrupted sternly. “We have easier and safer avenues to explore first. If we can’t make Aziraphale exile him, then there are other means we can exploit.”

“When do we begin?” Sandalphon asked with a greasy smile. Uriel looked to Gabriel, and Michael’s skin crawled with the backwardness of it all. He didn’t like to take orders from someone who had just the same rank as him, but he was in too deep to back out now. He wouldn’t know where to go from here even if he struck out alone, or challenged him. Telling Aziraphale was out of the question. Not only would he sacrifice thousands of years of royal patronage, he’d break the poor Queen’s heart. 

“Not yet. Michael has a point,” he said with a small smile. “For now, we lie low. We wait for our moment.”

Over the days that followed, there was an enquiry into the disappearance of the crown, and movement in and out of the city was much more closely monitored for a while. Unsurprisingly, the investigation turned up no results. Aziraphale handled it personally, since it was a strictly royal matter, and besides anything else it was a nice change of pace. It was a fun little mystery, now the crown was safe. He beavered away at it until he couldn't afford to put off his other work any longer, and was forced to admit defeat. Crowley visited his study after the announcement that the investigation was being closed, unsolved.

"Hey," he said, sitting down. "Are you really giving up on this whole crown thing?"

"I don't see any other option. I'm not getting anywhere, and there was no harm done, really," he said with a small shrug. "Whoever it was, if they're clever, they'll have fled the realm by now."

He hummed, distracted. "I s'pose..." he said. He scratched his neck awkwardly. "S'just... you never actually asked me where I was that night, when it was stolen."

Aziraphale winced. "I knew where you were," he said tightly. He’d done nothing to confirm Crowley’s alibi, choosing to take his word about where he’d been from before. In truth, he just couldn't bear the thought of having to speak to the woman he'd been with to prove his honesty. He'd already snapped at poor old Lady Deidre, only to later discover that she'd been at the dining hall that night anyway. "You were... otherwise engaged, that's all."

He wrinkled his nose. "What d'you say it like that for?"

"Its just a more polite way of putting it, that's all," he said, gathering up some parchment from his desk to occupy his hands. He didn't want to talk about this. For some reason he refused to understand, the thought of Crowley's relationships beyond the palace made his chest burn uncomfortably. 

"What are you on about?" he said. Aziraphale huffed. He couldn't be this ignorant, surely!

"Oh, you know. Don't make me say it."

"No, I _don’t_ know,” he insisted, leaning up from the chair. "Spit it out."

"You were — were — canoodling. Having it off. However you want to put it," he said, turning bright red and determinedly avoiding his gaze. He resented even saying such things. "It’s your business. I don't see why I should have to address it."

Crowley gawked, gripping the arms of the chair as if to convince himself he was awake, and not dreaming this entire bizarre encounter. "Angel," he said slowly, his brow knitted tightly together. "I can't believe I actually have to tell you this, but I'm not shagging Adam's mum."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Oh, _that_ Deidre?" he said, pressing a hand over his mouth. 

Crowley spread his arms in exasperation. "Yes, that Deidre! Who else would it have bloody well have been?" he cried. "I don't know anyone in this city!"

"I - I don't know!"

"And you thought I was sleazing around just because I didn't come to dinner?" he said, offended. The implications of that train of thought stung and reassured him at the same time. _If that's what he thinks, then he still doesn't know I feel about him,_ he realised. 

"No!" he said vehemently. Then, he hesitated. Actually... "Well, perhaps. But I didn't think badly of you for it."

"Oh, well that makes it all right, then," he said sarcastically, scoffing. 

"I'm sorry, Crowley, I am," he said pitifully. "I didn't mean to offend you. I was just..."

 _Insecure_ would have been the correct word. As it happened, he trailed off, and the silence loudly filled in the gaps. Crowley sighed and waved him off. "It's fine. Forget it," he said, letting him off the hook. "I'm not the one-night-stand sort, anyway."

"Ah. Prefer a little commitment, do you? Very respectable," he said, haphazardly trying to overwrite his previous insulting assumptions. Crowley glared at the mention of the word _respectable._ Aziraphale fidgeted. "Ahem. Yes, anyway. I never suspected you might've stolen the crown."

"Well that's something, at least," he said. He wondered if he'd have been so certain if Gabriel's plan had worked, and the crown had been uncovered in Azrael's stable like he'd planned. A shudder ran down his spine. He'd have been able to count on Mrs Young to confirm his alibi, at least. If he hadn't, well... He could well have been tossed out on his ear, or put behind bars. Aziraphale would have no choice, if he was found guilty; even though it was well within his powers to cover it up, it would get out. Rumours would spread. His reputation would suffer irreparable damage, and for someone who ruled alone, that just wasn’t an option. 

The story of the crown's mysterious disappearance trickled slowly down the tree, eventually reaching the little-visited root cavern at the very bottom. Anathema listened to the hearsay more than she usually would, on this occasion, as she went about the job of keeping the infirmary clean and functional. She was waiting for her cue. More than once, she went to her leather apothecary bag and took out the sheet of faded parchment in the front pocket, reading it over while silently mumbling the words on the page. She checked her lunar charts, and the positions of the stars on that night. She took a reading of the air humidity. Finally, her clockwork timer began to chirp, and she abruptly slammed her hand over it. A thrill went through her. 

"Miss Device?" her patient asked uncertainly, unnerved by the sudden gleam in her eye. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything is just fine. I have to go," she said, wrestling a small parcel bound in twine from her bag. 

"But you haven't finished checking my temperature," he protested. 

"You'll live. This is far more important," she said, tucking the parcel under her arm and sprinting toward the main doors. She didn't want to miss her window. 

She needn't have worried. Everything was exactly as it had been foreseen; dinner had just ended, and no one was eager to hang around after the recent theft, Aziraphale least of all. She caught a flash of his white coat weaving through the crowds. He'd said goodnight to Crowley, and all that was left was his usual desperate rush to hide in his bedroom before anyone else could try talking to him. She picked up her pace, trailing him at a distance through the halls until they were alone. She knew precisely which corridor she needed to be in, to make sure no one discovered that she'd even spoken to him that night. She cleared her throat. 

"Your majesty," she called firmly, without breaking stride. Aziraphale halted, turning in surprise, unaware that anyone had followed him up to this deserted hallway. 

"Anathema?" he said, brow creased. She never ventured this far up into the tree trunk. "Good lord. Is there an emergency?"

"No. I need to give you something," she said, holding the parcel in both hands. Aziraphale looked at it curiously, wondering what was so important. She hesitated for a moment. "Uh, before you get mad... I was under very specific instructions not to give you this until now."

Bemused, he took the parcel, and gently tugged the string free. He unfolded the paper, revealing a small green book with a gold embossed title. He gasped, his jaw dropping. "Oh my good lord," he cried, lifting his stunned gaze back to Anathema. "Did you know what this was?" 

She gave a wry smile, reading the title in his hands upside-down. "I suspected," she said, having just given him _The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the Story That Is To Come._


	16. Guilty Conscience

Aziraphale studied his new prophecies long and hard. They weren't as numerous as the original volume - and this copy included a very stern foreword about how we oughtn't dare to look unkindly on Anathema for hiding them - but the information therein was fascinating. There were allusions to fire, to the throne and his crown, and none of them were straightforward. Some weren’t even addressed to him. He huffed. He should've expected that, at least. He flipped one page, and felt his heart lurch at the sight of that dreaded word: _serpent._

"O Queen, the Serpent shall looke upon thee, though thou shalt know it not, and his appetite shall grow," he murmured, unease mounting in his chest. That didn't bode well. 

He turned the prophecy over in his head, picking it apart. _So, he’s going to eat me, is he? Hmph. Not a particularly pleasant way to go..._ he thought. He rubbed his neck uncomfortably, wondering if he'd be already be dead by the time the snake began to swallow him, or if he'd be suffocated to death in its belly... It must be big, if it could eat a whole person. Over seven feet long, he’d think. He'd studied snakes in years past, and the largest specimen he'd ever read about came in at around 25 feet long, but it was native to the warmer regions of the human world. It would have to travel a very long way to pass through one of the fairy rings leading into his realm.

_No wonder he'll be hungry when he arrives,_ he thought, looking down at himself. He was on the plump side, and for the first time, he had to wonder if that would count against him in the end; it would make him a very hearty meal for any road-weary snake. He sighed. He didn't suppose it would matter if Agnes hadn’t mentioned it specifically. His eyes tracked further down the page, landing on another prophecy, the like of which he never thought he'd see. It stole his breath immediately. 

_By dawn light you shall see,_

_over thy cuppe of tea,_

_his eyes, like gemstones, looke upon thee._

_He is your king, Great Blossom Tree;_

_Him, and him only._

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, his voice frail with joy, tears springing to his eye. Finally, _finally,_ Agnes had helped him with the issue which had been stagnating for thousands of years. His relief lasted for only an instant. 

Gemstones. He only knew one person with eyes like gemstones; amethyst eyes, to be precise. His heart lurched. "Oh, _fuck._ "

He slammed the book closed, shaking his head, and threw it into a disused drawer in his desk without bothering to read the rest of the prophecies. "No. No, no, absolutely not," he said fiercely. He snapped his fingers, locking the drawer. 

That couldn't be right. He couldn't make Gabriel king, not under any circumstances. He made a mental note only to drink tea behind closed doors before noon, and never to leave his room until dawn had well and truly passed. Something in the back of his mind told him that he was only delaying the inevitable (that was rather the point of prophecies, after all: inevitability), but he firmly ignored it. He could make sure that prophecy never came to pass. He had to. For his own sake, for his people's sake, he had to. 

Desperate to clear his head, to reconnect himself with the outside world, he dashed out of his study before dawn had even broken. The duty-guards were rather surprised to see him hurrying out of the palace doors in the dark, and out toward the northern trails. They didn't stop him. They simply watched as his white coat disappeared into the shadows, and didn't come back. The more they thought on it, the more they thought that it perhaps made sense. They'd seen Mr Crowley leave the same way an hour before. 

Crowley needed some space, and since he couldn't sleep, he figured that he'd revisit his old contemplative spot. The waterfall was a nice place at night, when the lichen on the rock began to emit an ethereal blue glow, and the pink-and-orange nebulae in the sky provided a warmth that matched the air of the pleasant summer nights. He didn't bother taking off his clothes, instead shifting straight into serpent-form and taking to the water. His long body swished back and forth through the waves, carrying him over to the wall of rock beside the rushing waterfall. He leaned up, finding a small nook in the stone which concealed a far larger cave inside. He could just about squeeze in through the entrance, and coil up in the pleasant darkness with the cool spray tickling his snout. He sat there, trying to drift off in his more natural surroundings, when a noise disturbed his peace. He listened closer. Footsteps approached the wall of shrubs around the spring. He tasted the air, and froze. He knew that scent anywhere. 

Aziraphale pushed through the branches, taking a deep breath of the freshwater hanging on the breeze. Crowley withdrew sharply into the cave, as far as the limited space would let him. His snout still poked out into the spray. He suppressed a hiss. What the bloody hell was he doing here at this time? The sun wasn't even up. 

_Wait... Wait, what's he doing?_ he thought, noticing Aziraphale shrug off his coat and fold it carefully. He set it on a dry rock. Then went his bow-tie, and then he began to unbutton his shirt. Crowley's poor reptilian heart skipped several beats. _No — No, wait, he's not about to take off his — oh shit, he is! Shit!_

He desperately tried to wriggle further back into the cave, to no avail. He was already coiled as tightly as his spine would allow, pressed firmly against the back wall of the stone cavity. He couldn't even turn around and hide his face in his scales, not without leaving the cave entirely and going back again to rearrange his coils — and that was obviously out of the question. He couldn't afford to be seen. Aziraphale's own mortal enemy, which had stupidly stuffed itself into a grotto with no escape route, like a sitting duck; it would be too good to be true! He'd kill him the moment he laid eyes on him. He was trapped. 

Aziraphale left all his clothes by the bank, and walked steadily down into the water. Though he was doing his best not to look too hard, Crowley definitely got an eyeful before the water covered his body. He wriggled uncomfortably, silently begging Aziraphale to swim somewhere out of his narrow line of sight, someplace Crowley wouldn't feel like such a pervert. Of all the ways this could have possibly gone wrong, this wasn't the one he'd banked on. Deaf to his internal screaming, Aziraphale made right for the waterfall... less than two feet from Crowley's snout. 

In his human form, Crowley would probably have let out a long, pained whine when Aziraphale stood beneath the cascade. Luckily for him, only Aziraphale's head and shoulders stood above the water, but even that was enough to set his heart racing. He daren't move again. The slightest shift could alert Aziraphale to his presence, and it would undoubtedly give him a nasty shock, looking down to find a serpent within striking distance of his bare chest. He guiltily watched as Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair, his usual blond darkened by the falls, and tilted his head, letting out a contented sigh as the water ran down his shoulders. Crowley wished he had eyelids. He'd have liked to close them now, shamefully aware that he was already developing a taste for how Aziraphale looked beneath those outmoded clothes he wore. 

_This is wrong. This is so wrong,_ he thought fiercely, resenting himself, resisting the urge to squirm in discomfort. _I shouldn't be here. This feels... creepy. This is extremely creepy._ He felt a bit sick, though certainly not because of Aziraphale's... state of undress. He couldn't quite bring himself to address the fact that he was naked, not in those words. He felt like he was taking advantage of him, even if he had no way of knowing he'd be here. He certainly wouldn't have chosen this. He was so consumed with guilt that he completely forgot that his life could be on the line, if he was seen. All it would take is for Aziraphale to see a flash of yellow in the shadow of the outcrop of rock, and it would all be over. 

Aziraphale was far too distracted to notice an unnatural gleam in the shadows, though. He was overtired, stressed and feeling utterly helpless. Fate seemed to be dragging him, kicking and screaming, toward Gabriel. He'd always put his trust in Agnes before, always loyally fulfilling her prophecies... It just made sense. Why kick against the Great Plan? He'd deviated a little, here and there, but he'd always stuck to the letter on the big stuff. If Gabriel truly was destined to be king, perhaps he wouldn’t be as awful as Aziraphale first thought. Maybe the new rank would make him a better man. But if that were true, he reasoned with himself, he'd have to wait until the prophecy was fulfilled _exactly_ as the book specified, just to make sure. He'd look his future consort — nay, his future king — in the eye under the rising sun, over a cup of tea. It would be a romantic thought, if not for the man he suspected it to be. Unless, of course... there was someone else. Sapphires were blue, after all, and he knew plenty of blue-eyed courtiers. Then there were emeralds, of course. Brown eyes could sometimes take on a sort of amber colour, especially in dawn light, something akin to a yellow diamond. In his heart of hearts, though, he doubted that those eyes would be anything so banal as those common colours. Agnes flagged up the colour for a reason. Gabriel was the closest match that he knew of, but he wouldn't move an inch until that prophecy was fulfilled. Once it was, he'd swallow his pride and finally, finally... he'd give in. 

He stepped out from under the waterfall, the air feeling warm against his cool skin. Dread sat in his gut. He'd finally begun to crack, after all this time. He wouldn't give Gabriel the satisfaction of knowing, at very least. The gemstone prophecy would remain a closely kept secret until the day it came to pass. That way, at least he could cling to the delightful fiction that his king might be someone else.

Crowley took a cold swim after Aziraphale left the spring. He made a mental note to never, ever get caught out like that again. Not only was it dangerous, it was a complete invasion of Aziraphale's privacy. He was tearing his hair out all the way back to the palace, wondering how he was going to look Aziraphale in the eye, knowing what he’d just done. He ran through a thousand ways he could start a conversation without it being obvious that he'd done something he shouldn't have. Not that it was really his fault... How was he supposed to know that Aziraphale was a midnight skinny-dipper? He'd have covered his eyes if he'd been able. 

After giving himself a stern talk in the mirror, he took one more cold bath and braved the throne room. Court was in session. He weaved through the crowd to the foot of the steps, and had barely laid one foot on them before he noticed something was wrong. There was a downturn in Aziraphale's lips, and a slump in his shoulders. He looked... defeated. Crowley hesitated. Aziraphale looked up, finally noticing him stood at the foot of the steps, and smiled weakly. A twin expression twitched on Crowley's face, unable to help himself. He was slightly giddy with the realisation that he'd brought that smile to his face. 

"Hey angel," he said, coming up to stand by the throne. Aziraphale gave a weary good morning. "You look tired."

"I didn't sleep much last night, that's all," he said, and looked as if he was about to say something else but decided against it. "I've been... I've been thinking awfully hard."

"Yeah?" he said, and almost leaned on the throne before jumping back just in time. "Anything interesting...?"

His smile had vanished. "I rather wish it weren't," he mumbled. Crowley wasn't even sure if he was supposed to have heard that. He watched his downtrodden expression, wondering if he'd looked this way at the waterfall. He'd been too wrapped up in hating himself to take note at the time. An image of him in the water passed his mind's eye again, lingering there sweetly until he snapped back to reality at the sound of Aziraphale's voice. 

"Are you all right, Crowley?" he asked with a concerned crease in his brow. 

"M - Me? Uh, yeah, f - erm, fine. Why?" he said, shaking his head slightly and trying to play it off. 

"You were staring," he said. "At least, I think you were. It's hard to tell with those tinted spectacles you wear."

"Sunglasses," he corrected dryly, avoiding his gaze. He needed to get a grip. If he kept staring at Aziraphale like a starving man at a restaurant window, he was bound to notice something was up. He was lucky Gabriel hadn't publicly shamed him for his feelings already — though he'd tried, indirectly, with that stealing-the-crown trick. He didn't want to push his luck. 

He stood by while court was in session, idly passing comment here and there to keep Aziraphale's mood up. He seemed to be struggling today. He pondered what he could do to get him back to his usual bouncy self. Food? That could work. He could have something sent up to his room where he could eat in peace. Maybe he'd like to have a walk through the city, even. His people were always happy to see him, even if they didn't approach. While he was pondering, activity at court was beginning to die down. Until Adam ran in, of course. 

"Hey! Court is in session, boy," Gabriel said, intercepting him immediately. Dog grumbled at him, his lip beginning to curl. 

Adam puffed out his chest. "Yeah? Well, court is when you're s'posed to ask the Queen for things, right?" he said, taking up the challenge before Aziraphale could interject from behind. 

"It's far more complex than — "

"Pretty much," Crowley called over the top of Gabriel's derision. Aziraphale scratched his nose to hide his smirk. 

"Then that means I can talk to him, doesn't it?" Adam continued, skirting around the spluttering duke without another word. He stopped at the foot of the throne's steps. "'Ello, your majesty."

He smiled patiently. "Hello, Adam," he said. His courtiers were rolling their eyes already. "What can I do for you, dear boy?"

"The travelling market's setting up just outside the city. They've got a ton of foods from all over the world this time, and they've brought their best musicians, _and_ they've got books. Big boring ones with no pictures. I asked," he said, looking expectantly up at him. He was clearly hoping for a particular response. 

"So I've heard," he replied with a small sigh. Crowley arched a brow. "I'm sure you and your friends will have a splendid time."

Adam huffed. "It'd be better if you went with us," he said, finally getting to the point he'd been driving at. "You never go to the market."

Aziraphale shook his head slightly, his expression pinched. "I'm afraid I can't, Adam, as you well know," he said. He glanced back down, spotting Dog about to cock his leg on an unsuspecting Gabriel. He sharply cleared his throat and pointed a finger, drawing the hound's attention. "Not in _my_ throne room, you little rascal."

With a short whine, Dog trotted away from a baffled Gabriel — who'd at first thought Aziraphale was talking to him — to rejoin Adam. "Come on, then, Dog. Let's go," he said dejectedly. "Wensley was right. It didn't work."

They trailed out of the throne room, and Aziraphale guiltily ended the court session not long afterward. Crowley kept tactfully quiet. There was a loud, curious silence buzzing around them as they walked away from the throne room, with Aziraphale wringing his hands together and staring at his feet. He knew what Crowley was thinking. 

"I wasn't being rude," he burst out suddenly, as if defending himself mid-argument. Crowley blinked. "Adam has been trying to convince me to attend for years and I keep saying no, absolutely not, out of the question, because — because no one ever acts naturally when I arrive and I would hate to be a spoilsport at such a lovely event because it's not _for_ me, it's for the people and I just — "

"Woah, woah, slow down, angel. Take a breath," Crowley interrupted, holding up his hands to cut him off. "I get it."

"Oh," he said, brow furrowing as if he didn't quite understand. "You do?"

"Course. No one acts normal around me either. I mean, why would they? I'm Mr Take-Away-Your-Loved-Ones," he said with a shrug. "No one likes a death-omen."

Aziraphale paused. He processed that slowly, trying to reconcile that with his image of the man in front of him. Charming, handsome, laid-back... "How awful," he mumbled, wondering how terribly, heart-wrenchingly alone he must have been before he came here. 

"S'not so bad once you get used to it," he said, eager to shake him off. He kept walking down the hall, forcing Aziraphale to hurry to catch up. "How long's this market in town for anyway?"

"Usually around a week or two at a time. They rest, replenish their supplies, and then they're off again," he said. Crowley nodded along, taking it on board. "Thinking of popping down?"

He hummed noncommittally, hearing the jealousy in his voice. "Might do. I'll see how I feel," he said. 

"Oh," he said faintly. It was selfish of him to hope that Crowley might stay here in solidarity all week while such a fabulously lively market was going on... He ought to be happy he could go. "Do tell me how it is."

Aziraphale went about his duties, trying to ignore the bustle of the market sending ripples all the way up to the palace. It was slightly unavoidable, unfortunately. There were minor disturbances and the odd few arrests made for theft which usually required his attention, seeing as they were not native to his land. Trade boomed, but with that came extra work to manage his coffers and check the royal accounts. It was dull work. He'd much rather be enjoying the many things he saw dispassionately listed on his scrolls of parchment, from rare books to foreign delicacies, which he tried desperately not to imagine. He seemed to be constantly bouncing between two raw nerves; the constraints of his rank, and his marriage to Gabriel at some unknown date on the horizon... The latter made his skin crawl every time he recalled it. Never before, not even when faced with his own death, had he been so tempted to simply light Agnes' prophecies on fire and never think about them again. 

He woke up early as usual, and set about getting ready for the day. He had his tea on the balcony, bathed in the orange light of sunrise. He'd always revelled this particular moment of the day, when all was quiet and the world seemed simple. Not anymore. Not when he imagined that fatal instant when he looked over his tea set and saw those amethystine eyes looking back. He finished his tea without relish, and was about to put on his coat when there was an urgent knock on the door. His heart jumped. _Oh dear, this can't be good..._ he thought, opening it. 

Crowley pushed his way inside with a large bag over his shoulder. He dumped it at the foot of his bed, and looked back up at the befuddled Queen. "Morning," he said with a short nod, looking very pleased with himself. Suspiciously pleased. 

"Erm... good morning," he said slowly, shutting the door so their voices didn't carry. He glanced down at the bag. "Dare I ask what harebrained scheme you've cooked up now...?"

"Oh yes," he said enthusiastically. He kicked the bag, letting it fall open to reveal a selection of plain clothes and a makeup set. "I'm taking you to the market, angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no WiFi at the moment, so I apologise if that interferes at all with the posting schedule. If an update is late, the story is NOT on hiatus, I’m just struggling to upload. Thanks for understanding :)  
> (PS I’d still like plenty of comments to read when my internet is back though! <3)


	17. The Fall

"Pardon?" Aziraphale said, pulled up short. Crowley heedlessly began to unpack the bag, tossing clothes onto the bed. 

"You heard. Come on, get dressed," he said. "I hate seeing you mope, so we're going. Bugger the consequences."

Flustered, Aziraphale shook his head, trying to retreat across the room but finding he had nowhere to go, unless he planned to take a flying leap off the balcony. That was a bit extreme, as responses go. "That - That is not the reason I've been out of sorts recently," he said, the gemstone prophecy swirling in his head again like thick, choking smoke. He tried to clear it, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Crowley, but the answer is no."

"No it isn't," he said, unabashed. 

"It is!" he insisted. He came back over, hoping to labour the point. "And even if I said yes, it would all end in tears. No one wants the Queen at the market. It's not a formal event, and that's the end of it. So there."

"No, not _so there,_ " he retorted, jabbing a finger at the clothes. "That's what the disguises are for."

"Disguises?" he cried in alarm. 

"Yes, disguises. Now come on, we haven't got all day. We need to sneak out before court's due to start or someone's going to catch us," he said, laying out his makeup set on the vanity. 

_"Sneak out?"_ he said shrilly, helplessly watching him plough on with his plan. He snapped out of it with a small shake of his head, and put his foot down. "Absolutely not! Out of the question, we're not having this conversation. Not another word. I'm not going."

Crowley turned around, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What? So this is how you're choosing to live, is it? Locked in an ivory tower, choking on a silver spoon?" he said. Aziraphale looked down at his hands, nervously twisting the signet ring on his finger. He stubbornly refused to look up when Crowley appeared in front of him, so close he could feel his warmth. "Talk to me, angel... What are you so afraid of?"

There were many answers. Gabriel was one, Michael was another. He was afraid of being seen. He was afraid that his people would think less of him, sneaking around like a thief in their midst. But... something else that petrified him, that chilled him to the core, was the idea that he would never get a taste of real freedom. It was a fear he'd hidden deep down inside, where neither light nor words could reach it. He'd been thrown into the world with the figurative crown already firmly on his head, and he'd had no choice but to walk the path of a Queen. He'd dreamed of a day when he could take off his crown, lay it down somewhere and forget about it, just for once. It would be marvellous. It would be impossible.

And yet here Crowley was, offering it to him. 

He took a deep breath. "Good at disguises, are you?" he asked tremulously, finally daring to look up into those dark glasses. 

A smile tweaked the edges of his lips. "Very."

Aziraphale took the clothes and disappeared behind his dressing screen, donning simple clothes for the first time in thousands of years. He'd forgotten how much heavier these fabrics were, unlike the feather-light silks and fae fabric he was accustomed to. He'd been provided a brown tunic, with a broad leather belt, plain trousers and boots. He examined himself for a moment in the mirror, tugging at them in uncertainty. He looked so different. So... un-regal. That was rather the point, he supposed, as he cleared his throat and asked if Crowley was decent. 

"More or less," he replied. Aziraphale squeaked a little as he stepped out, seeing Crowley wearing only the tall boots and trousers of his disguise. The Dullahan laughed. "You've seen me shirtless before, angel."

He averted his gaze, his cheeks warm. "Yes, but you'd been rather gravely wounded at the time," he said, his eyes momentarily darting back onto the scar on his abdomen. "Please just put some clothes on, will you?"

Scoffing, Crowley slipped into the white, puffy-sleeved shirt he'd brought along. Aziraphale watched curiously as he tucked the loose hem into his trousers, transfixed by the unusual sight of Crowley wearing pale clothes. It was partially covered by the short cloak affixed to the archer's hood he put on next, which sat low over his brow. Then came the makeup, which he applied impressively quickly to the both of them. It was a subtle change to their faces, but it added an extra layer of unfamiliarity to their features. Finally, he picked up a length of woollen fabric from the bed. 

"Here, you'll need this," he said, draping it across Aziraphale's shoulders and over his head to form a cowl. "It's got a glamour on it, like mine, so people are less likely to notice us."

He huffed. "Then what on Earth was the point in all this?" he said, gesturing at them both. 

"People can still recognise us if they start to suspect something's amiss," he said. "The key is to blend in, angel. Don't draw attention to yourself, and you'll be fine. Now come on, we need to get a move on."

He opened the door, ushering him through and down the spiral stairs. They paused at the bottom, looking out at the empty hallway, listening in tense silence to their own breathing. Crowley nudged him out into the corridor when he hesitated, leading the way from the foot of the stairs toward the next corner. Every turn they came to, they glanced around the corner, waiting to hear approaching footsteps. It was quiet. Aziraphale stuck close to Crowley, giddy on the thrill of sneaking around these familiar halls. 

They soon made it down to the foot of the tree, to a room cluttered with seedlings and gardening implements. None of the gardeners were there. They passed through quickly, breaking free into the garden beyond, where the odd few people were milling around the paths. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, expecting all eyes to snap onto him immediately, like they always did when the grand double doors opened ahead of him. None did. He stared in awe, until Crowley tugged at his elbow.

"Welcome to normality, angel," he murmured in amusement, taking him around a side path and into the city. 

"Fancy that," he said, dazed, trailing him down the main road. The familiar homes and faces passed him by without sparing him and Crowley a second glance. It stole his breath. Could this really be what life was like, for a person without blue blood in their veins? 

A distant noise reached his ear. He looked up at the towering city walls, quickly looming over them as they crossed the main square. With every step the sound grew louder. Crowley looked across, hearing Aziraphale's breath catch as they approached the city gate, where a small detachment of guards leaned nonchalantly on the walls, listening to the festivities just outside. A small whine escaped the Queen's throat. These were his own guard; some had patrolled his palace for centuries. They were sure to recognise him. He tried to speed up slightly to hurry past, but Crowley grabbed the back of his shirt to slow him again. 

"Don't panic," he said in a low voice, warm and familiar. The shadow of the arch had fallen upon them. "They won't see through the glamour."

Aziraphale gave a tight nod, keeping his eyes trained on the floor as they passed. Crowley gave an amiable smile, and a guard nodded in return. They weren't stopped. Aziraphale let out a deep sigh of relief, grateful to his wily friend. He would've turned to tell him so, if his attention hadn't been so abruptly stolen by the excitement unfolding before him. 

Just beyond the city walls, where the land began to gently slope away toward the smattering of trees which later thickened into the forest, the travelling market had set up shop. There was an enormous sprawl of temporary thoroughfares in-between the stalls, each one laid out on trestle tables or hardy embroidered rugs on the grass. Every few metres, there was a semi-cylindrical caravan with large spoked wheels, painted in an ecstatic palette of turquoise, gold, red and yellow, depicting anything from intricate folk tales to the simple aesthetic patterns of a skilled artist. People flooded the market, laughing and running and revelling in the atmosphere. No one scattered away from him in fear. He felt Crowley's gaze on him. 

"Angel?" he said softly. "Are you alright?"

He swallowed thickly. "It's just — very new, that's all," he said shakily. He wasn't sure which way to turn. The sights alone were overwhelming enough. What if he got lost? Hurt? Discovered?

"Hey," he said, and Aziraphale felt a light nudge. Crowley held out his arm for him to take, his half-concealed face soft with reassurance. Aziraphale took his arm with both hands like a precious lifeline, something to anchor him in these wild and uncharted waters. He'd never left his little royal bubble, and now, he felt terribly vulnerable. He'd have never had the courage to push on, if not for Crowley's support. 

Crowley took him down a quiet path first. He breathed deeply from the scents in the air, his serpentine nose picking out each exotic spice and condiment from the food stalls littering the market. Aziraphale looked curiously at the stalls they passed. Now and then, they'd pause, and pick through the wares on offer. Aziraphale soon had a bag full of new books slung over his shoulder, and he buzzed with excitement every time he spotted a new one for his collection. Despite his zealous purchasing, he didn't talk much to start with. He let Crowley speak with the vendors, haggle them down, or even banter with them. Some of them clearly recognised him as Unseelie.

It wasn't unusual for Unseelie fairies to travel with the market; their population was fluid, picking up and dropping people from all realms, wherever they went. They didn't owe their allegiance to any particular queen. Some realms barred them from passing through, decrying them as abominations or offenders of the natural order. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at such an idea. They were no different from any other fairies, and many fae from the market had settled in his realm, when they grew road-weary. Granted, only the Seelie ones, but he would welcome anyone if they chose to stay. He idly pondered the issue, arm in arm with his dearest friend in the world, who also just-so-happened to be his supposed natural opposite. A ghost of a smile found his lips. Oh, if Gabriel could see him now. Strolling as he pleased among the so-called rabble from beyond the Queendom, so close to Crowley, in common clothes with a satchel slung over his shoulder... 

"Peckish?" Crowley asked with a wry smile, nodding toward the broadest and busiest path in the market. Smoke wafted up from the caravans there, and a conveniently timed breeze brought a wave of delicious scents crashing over them. 

"Indubitably," he replied, his eyes suddenly alight with appetite. 

Crowley tutted, rolling his eyes at his choice of words. They dove into the throng, and Aziraphale's grip on his arm tightened like a vice. He winced slightly. 

Somebody bumped into them, knocking Aziraphale. "Sorry mate," they said in passing, before vanishing again. Aziraphale, wide-eyed, turned to look at Crowley.

"Did you see that?"

He cringed. "He didn't mean to, angel, it was just an — "

"That's never happened before in my life!" he continued with heedless excitement. Crowley raised his brows. "How - How invigorating..."

"It was just a bump on the shoulder," he replied incredulously. Still, he supposed it was something of a milestone, if this was his first banal public encounter in millennia. He looked down at the Queen's face, absorbed in his surroundings, glowing with childlike wonder. Love bloomed brighter in his chest, rooting itself deeper with every moment he watched. 

Aziraphale began to make incoherent, excited noises, tugging Crowley sharply across the way. He spluttered apologies to the people they barged in front of as he was dragged over the food stall which had unwittingly reeled in a very enthused royal visitor. He glanced up. 

"What's a crêpe?" he asked sceptically. 

"Oh, I've read about them. They're a delightfully thin fried batter, filled with all sorts of scrumptious things," he said, bouncing on his heels. "I've been absolutely itching to try them for eons, but they say the only decent ones come from travelling markets."

A grinning Unseelie fae leaned out from her stall, her dark flyaway hair tickled by the breeze. Donkey ears poked out from under her hair. "He's right, you know! We're a connoisseur's choice," she boasted. Aziraphale looked ready to burst with excitement. Crowley smiled. "Can I take an order from you gentlemen?"

"Oh, oh, erm," Aziraphale said, pushing the tip of his tongue out thoughtfully between his lips as he studied the menu. Crowley and the chef shared an amused look. "A crêpe suzette sounds absolutely scrummy."

She smiled, taken up with his enthusiasm, and noted it down. "And for your husband?"

They both gave a jolt of surprise. "My - ? Oh, no, he's not my — we're not married. We hardly know each other," he said quickly, looking down at the ground like he'd been caught doing something vile.

"Charming," Crowley murmured under his breath, but didn't take it to heart. He looked at the chef. "I'll have whatever's edible. Surprise me."

"Coming up," she said with a sceptical glance toward Aziraphale. She clearly didn't believe him either. "Take a seat, I'll call you when it's ready."

They sat on a vacant table on the edge of the throng, settling into their own conversation. Aziraphale was guiltily quiet. He clearly regretted his choice of words, but the awkwardness was quickly left behind when Crowley used his favourite trick to get him talking again: ask about food. He was soon chattering relentlessly about crêpes, and a similar more savoury dish originating in England called an oatcake — not to be confused with the Scottish variety, heavens no. It wasn't long before the Unseelie woman called out their order number.

Crowley hopped up, wandering over to the caravan. "Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"Just take it. I'm not struggling, and you'll need every trick in the book if you're trying to bed _him_ ," she said drolly, giving a careless nod in Aziraphale's direction. Crowley tensed up. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You're a good-looking bloke, but Seelies are nigh on impossible to court. They're picky buggers."

He gave a grunt of assent. "Well... he has been single for thousands of years. I see what you mean," he said in reluctant agreement. She nodded knowingly, and pushed their order box toward him. 

"Here. You've got strawberries and sugar on yours. It's a classic— and an aphrodisiac, where I come from," she said with a sly wink. He ducked his head slightly in embarrassment, making her chuckle. "Good luck, brother. You're gonna need it."

He hurried away from the caravan before she could say any more. She meant well, but courting Aziraphale was the last thing he wanted to do with the serpent prophecy hanging over his head. Today was about lifting Aziraphale's spirits. For whatever reason, something had been weighing on him recently, and Crowley made it his business to chase it away for a while. He couldn't show Aziraphale that he loved him in any way that mattered, but he could tempt that glowing smile out from him whenever he could, and try and commit every moment to memory. He'd need them, after he left. He'd need them desperately. 

Crowley picked at his crêpes, shamelessly watching Aziraphale relish his own. When he was done, he handed over his own. "Here, I'm full," he said.

"Oh? Are you certain?" he said, taking the box. He nodded, looking idly around at the people milling by the food stalls. With a happy wiggle, Aziraphale dug into his second box of crêpes. Once he was done, he gave one last long groan, so suggestive that Crowley looked away... or tried to, at least. "That was absolutely delightful, Crowley, thank you."

He gave a tense hum. "S'alright," he said, stomping out his lust. Now was not the time, nor would it ever be. He leant on his knees, trying to ground himself in the bustle of the market. 

Aziraphale thought for a moment. "I heard some wonderful music from somewhere over there," he said. "Could we — ?"

He trailed off hopefully, fixing him with a doe-eyed stare. "Yeah, all right," he said with a faux-exasperated sigh, pushing himself to his feet. Aziraphale hopped up beside him, taking his arm back without hesitation. He had well and truly taken off the crown, and left it at the gate. 

They followed the music through the crowds, dodging a gaggle of giggling children as they went, and emerged into a clearing amongst the caravans. There was a platform at the edge, populated by a troop of flutists, fiddle-players and festival drummers. In the centre of the circle, a Seelie ribbon dancer captivated the audience. She twisted and twirling with grace, conjuring new silver ribbons with a flourish while the others disintegrated into a rippling multicoloured sheen on the air. Aziraphale gasped in delight.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he said, gesturing to the elegant dancer. Crowley tilted his head curiously, his attention split. "That day by the lake, with your whip."

He spluttered indignantly, breaking away from watching the show. "My wh — ? I'm not a dancer, angel. That whip is a weapon," he said. Aziraphale smirked. "It's dangerous. It'll have your eye out, that will. Nothing like these - these - what are they? Floaty things."

"Ribbons, dear," he said amusedly. Crowley curled his lip, mumbling faint, toothless protests. The dancer finished their act, and the music shifted from the lilting, controlled melody into a jaunty festival tune. 

People began to jump into the clearing, laughing and dragging their reluctant friends with them as a group dance began to take shape. Strangers twirled one another around, linking arms and spinning before breaking apart to join their next partner in the dance. Aziraphale tapped his foot, humming along. He watched the dance, observing the steps, committing the pattern to memory. He was well-practised at watching festivities from a distance. It was what he'd always done; it was so second-nature that it surprised him, when Crowley murmured something in his ear.

"You can join in, you know," he said. Aziraphale jumped slightly. "Go on, you know you want to."

"But - But what if I get it wrong?" he fretted, subconsciously tightening his hold on Crowley's arm again. 

"Everyone's getting it wrong. It's just a bit of fun, angel," he said, nudging him forward gently. "I'll do it if you do."

Emboldened, Aziraphale stepped into the circle, and was quickly snatched into the dance. He heard the first half of Crowley's laugh as he squeaked, spinning around on the arm of a fae he'd never met. He stumbled awkwardly. The stranger giggled, but Aziraphale didn't feel stung by it. Her mirth was contagious. He was soon spinning away from her, on the arm of someone else, and then another and another. Faces whirled by in a blur, but each one smiled and laughed, caught in the simple joy of the lively music and friendly company. Aziraphale buzzed with it. He fell into the rhythm of the dance, following it without caring if he misstepped here or there. He didn't have to worry, and it was the most refreshing thing he'd done in nearly six thousand years. The watching crowd clapped along to the beat, and the air was filled with whoops and cheers as the music sped up, bringing a new pace to the dance. He laughed with the thrill, tripping over himself again, but quickly recovering his balance on the next turn. 

He locked arms with someone again, turning halfway before he looked up, meeting the dark glasses covering their eyes. "Crowley!" he said breathlessly, narrowly avoiding stepping on his toes. 

"Having fun?" he said with a broad grin, stepping back to take his hand and twirl him around. Aziraphale's breath caught, his touch sending tingles over his skin like no one else's had. 

"Lots," was the only response he had time to blurt out before the cogs of the dance kept turning, carrying his friend away across the clearing. He burned with disappointment, suddenly desperate to stay that way, dancing with Crowley without a care in the world. The moment had passed far too quickly, before he'd even had a chance to breathe it all in. 

The song came to an end in a vibrant crescendo, leaving all the dancers to break apart and soak in the applause from the spectators. Some fell melodramatically to the ground in fatigue, to the amusement of their partners, who helped them back to their feet. Aziraphale stepped back from the clearing, panting, unable to move the grin from his face. His heart fluttered with happiness and activity as he looked around in search of Crowley. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulders, the weight of it digging into his skin after the dance, though he was not willing to shed any of the books inside. He'd come across some very desirable specimens so far, and they'd double as treasured memories of this day when he'd had nothing to worry him what-so-ever. 

He couldn't spot his friend right away, and the crowd was still moving, rearranging itself for the next dance. His boldness wavering, he retreated from the bustle, going to take the weight off his feet on a nearby bench. He slipped off his satchel, leaving it by his foot. If he just stayed here, Crowley would find him. He hadn't gone far. It was a little quieter here, removed from the spectating crowd, and he was perfectly visible. Maybe a little _too_ visible...

He startled when someone draped themselves over the back of the bench. "Hey," drawled the stranger, encroaching on his space. He shied away, proffering a nervous smile.

"Hello there," he said. The stranger was stout and broad, with pitch dark eyes that had a glint in them that Aziraphale didn't like at all.

"Couldn't help but see you from across the way. You're a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure," he said, craning his neck and leaning closer. Aziraphale looked away, fidgeting uncomfortably. Maybe if he just tried not to engage, he'd go away. "What's a pretty fairy like you doing here on your own?" 

"I'm not alone," he said, desperately wishing that were true. Crowley had to find him soon, didn't he? "My friend will be here any second."

He snickered. He leant so close that Aziraphale felt his breath stir his ear, and he wanted nothing more than to rip his disguise back and smite him to Queendom come. That thought alone sent a fresh ripple of anxiety through him. What if he saw through the facade? Recognised him? Word would spread back to the palace, and it would be catastrophic. He turned his whole body away from him, pressed so hard against the arm of the bench that it began to ache. 

"That's convenient," said the stranger, with a knowing drawl which screamed _I don't believe you._ "Why don't you come back to my caravan while you wait, huh? S'nice and cosy, plenty of room — " 

He began to reach for Aziraphale's cowl, the keystone of the whole disguise. He lurched up, stumbling away from him. "Don't you dare!" he barked, his voice lost amongst the nearby drummers and dancers. Everyone was distracted by the show. No one turned, and no one saw. 

He scowled. "I'm only being friendly," he leered, moving out from behind the bench. Aziraphale's breath hitched. He began to back away, his heart bucking wildly in his chest. His back collided with something — or rather, someone.

He startled, half spinning around, when a pair of hands landed lightly on his shoulders. Crowley's familiar sharp features, crowned with those impassive sunglasses, flooded his body with relief. He slumped back slightly against him, intensely grateful that he'd found him when he had. 

"This guy bothering you, angel?" he asked, his gaze trained perfectly on the other fae. The stranger glared back. 

"Somewhat, yes, now you mention it," he said. 

"You've gotta be kidding. An Unseelie?" the creep said, gagging. "I thought they banned cross-breeding eons ago."

Aziraphale gasped sharply. There were many, many layers of things wrong with that statement; he'd never heard such vitriolic racism in his own realm, where unions between the different types of fae were most certainly _not_ illegal. "How dare you," he hissed before Crowley had a chance to intervene. He stepped forward, marching straight up to him, squaring his shoulders. "I'll have you know that no such law exists, and never will. Not here."

He half-laughed in surprise. "So you do talk!" he sneered. He took another threatening step forward. "But who made you Queen, pipsqueak?"

Crowley appeared by his side, grabbing Aziraphale's arm with an awkward laugh. "Ha, right, come on, angel. Time to go, he's not worth it," he said, trying to tug him away, but Aziraphale stood as firm as a cliff-face. He wasn't moving. He gave another awkward chuckle and spoke between gritted teeth: "Angel..."

"Let him speak, you dirty bloodsucker," the stranger spat, making him flinch. He saw Aziraphale's thunderous expression and spread his arms mockingly. "Aw look, he's pouting. You gonna hit me, little guy? Huh?"

"I am considering it," he said with false levity. Crowley's eyes widened, and he glanced frantically between the two. The creep kept laughing. 

"Go on, then. I'll give you a free shot," he said, taking a step back out of his space to let him take the swing. "Hit me. Give it all you've got."

"Everything?" he said, raising his eyebrows a little. 

He rolled his eyes. "Sure. Everything," he said, leaning back nonchalantly, not even braced for a blow. Aziraphale quietly set aside his morals; today was a day to cut loose, after all. He gently pushed Crowley back, and rolled his shoulder in preparation. He took a deep breath, drew back, and swung his fist as hard as he could. 

The creep didn't just fall, he _flew._ The punch hit him right in the gut, sending him arching high into the air in a tangle of flailing limbs, leasing a garbled screech of pain and shock. Aziraphale flexed his hand in satisfaction. He shielded his eyes to watch him climb eight feet into the air, before falling rapidly back down... He landed with a sickening thump upon the musicians' stage. Aziraphale's smirk fell. 

The music stopped with a strange, honking confusion of notes and cries of alarm. A long groan emitted from the figure which had dropped from the sky amongst them. The dance ground to a halt. The spectators fell silent and, in the stilted tension that followed, the bruised fae pointed a shaking finger across the way, to the rotund Seelie fae who was looking rather guilty with himself. 

Crowley grasped his arm. "I think that's our cue to leave," he said, dragging him away. They broke into a sprint down the thoroughfare, barging people aside as they ran, as a commotion went up in their wake. The air burned in their lungs. Someone shrieked for the guards. There was a clatter of spears and armour as a pair of them gave chase, and Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder with a manic laugh. Imagine! Arrested by his own guard! 

Crowley wrenched him around a corner, and tackled him to the ground. They rolled beneath an unattended caravan in a tangle of limbs. Aziraphale panted heavily, hyperaware of Crowley's weight on top of him, pressing his back against the grass in the sliver of space beneath the caravan's body. Boots thundered by. He couldn't have cared less. He fought with the urge to buck his hips against Crowley’s, curious if he could be tempted to rut against him, however briefly. He screwed his eyes shut and banished those thoughts, knowing full well it wouldn't be appropriate, even if he wasn't a Queen just for that day. Crowley was oblivious. He gritted his teeth, leaning down to peer into the open space beyond their hiding spot, trying to gauge if it was safe to emerge and make a break for the city gate. Regaining his breath, Crowley looked down, and finally noticed that he was lying flush against him. 

"Mhm. Sorry about this," he grunted, trying not to look him in the eye. The commotion from the guards was still fading. The image of Aziraphale swinging his fist at that creep replayed in his head on a loop, sending a pleasurable shudder down his spine. He tried to lift himself off him, but only got so far before he hit the underbelly of the caravan. He tried to reign in his thoughts; Aziraphale would definitely notice if something began to poke his leg. “Not a lot of room.” 

"I forgive you," Aziraphale replied quietly, breathless for multiple reasons. 

"So, uh... strong arm you've got there," Crowley said, cringing as he listened to himself speak. He hoped saying something would cool the heat rising in his belly. _I've got literal royalty pinned under me, and I'm trying to make small talk?_ he realised, exasperated with himself. Still, it was better than the taking the risk of indulging himself... though screwing a Seelie Queen under a caravan would’ve made for a hell of a story.

Aziraphale gave a breathy laugh. "Well... you know what they say. An old Queen is a strong Queen," he said. "Though I perhaps got a tidgy bit carried away just then..."

"Deserved it though, didn't he?" he said, starting to grin as he remembered what the creep had said. He'd hurled slurs at Crowley, and only then had Aziraphale struck. He’d defended him. 

"He did, rather," he said, finding his smile contagious. They lay there under the caravan for a long moment, flush together despite Crowley’s valiant efforts and invisible to the whole world, before the silence washed in like the tide. There was an opportunity here. They both felt it, something hanging in the closeness of the air, something tempting them further... _Close the gap. Kiss him,_ it whispered. _No one would know. You'll never get this chance again._

Crowley swallowed hard. "I think they're gone," he rasped. He needed to get away from this, the very sweetest temptation he'd ever forced himself to resist, and take a deep breath of reality. If he kissed him now, he’d never forgive himself. Today wasn't about his own wants. 

Aziraphale nodded. "We'd better get a bit of a wiggle on, then."

Crowley slithered out from under the caravan, pulling Aziraphale to his feet after him. He glanced back and forth, batting the grass off his clothes as they tried to pretend they hadn't just crawled out from hiding in a suspiciously disheveled state. Their disguises were still intact. Crowley was relieved to find that his body was behaving itself. He looked at Aziraphale, who was straightening his cowl. 

"Wiggle on?" he echoed in contempt. "Really?"

"What?" he said innocently, glancing around. He took up a brisk pace toward the city gate, hurrying to shake off the tension from under the caravan. "Come along, dear, this way. Chop chop."

Rolling his eyes, Crowley followed along, sauntering by his side at a leisurely pace, slowing him. They slipped past the gate-guards with no trouble, and began to make their way toward the looming shape of the palace. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the city, tireless as the gentle breeze sweeping through the streets. Aziraphale breathed it in deeply. People brushed past him in the town square, oblivious to their own Queen right by their side. Aziraphale thoughtlessly rested his head on Crowley's shoulder as they walked, revelling in the deep love he held for his Queendom. He'd never felt so close to his people before. He could finally see them going about their normal day up-close, rather than watching from his isolated little balcony way above their heads. He sighed in contentment. 

"I haven't had such fun in... oh, eons," he said as they skirted around the vast tree-roots toward a little-used service door. "Thank you, Crowley."

He hummed awkwardly, shrugging. "S'alright. Don't mention it," he said. He glanced away, and Aziraphale took his chance to watch the embarrassed-yet-delighted expression clinging to his face. It was a handsome face in more than just looks; it was subtly expressive, familiar, kind... 

They passed through the palace halls as easily as they had strolled through the market. Neither of them seriously expected to be caught, not now, not after such a perfect day. Even the altercation with the fae at the market was just a feature of the day, one that they laughed about on their way back to Aziraphale's room. Crowley's terrible impression of the creep sent Aziraphale into a fit of giggles so hard that he had to sit down on the bed. Shaking his head as he came down from it, he took off his cowl, setting it aside. 

"What a marvellous way to spend the morning," he said wistfully, going to adjust the strap of his satchel on his shoulder when — 

His hand landed on nothing. His stomach lurched, and he looked down, tugging at his clothes as if the strap could simply be lost amongst the fabric. He looked frantically between his shoulders. "Angel?" Crowley said, noticing his panic with a note of concern. He tossed his hood aside and pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. "What's wrong?"

"Oh - Oh, the books!" he cried, grabbing a handful of his hair as regret stabbed deep into his gut. He'd left his satchel by the bench where that stranger had first accosted him. "I forgot all the books! They'll all be lost and — "

Crowley cleared his throat, snapped his fingers behind his back, and produced Aziraphale's satchel from thin air. "Little Unseelie trick of my own. Shrinking magic," he explained as the Queen took the bag in amazement, opening it to reveal the precious haul of books from the market. Crowley shoved one hand in his pocket, while picking up the clothes he'd left here that morning when they'd donned their disguises. He tossed them into the empty bag by the door. "I'd best be off, anyway."

Aziraphale looked up at him, his jaw still slack and his heart still fluttering. Crowley had remembered the books when even he'd forgotten them, even in the mess and confusion, even after having slurs hurled at him for doing nothing more than exist. He'd done all that and still, he asked for nothing in return. Aziraphale swallowed hard, clutching the satchel to his chest, a lump in his throat. He'd maintained the convenient fiction that Crowley was only a friend for months, and now he could feel it being blown to smithereens by that one simple act. This wasn’t just lust, was it? This was something far more permanent. This was... 

Crowley turned the door handle, glancing slightly over his shoulder at the stupefied Queen. "See you later, angel," he said, and slipped out of the room. The door closed softly behind him. Aziraphale's breath came in short, shallow drags, wavering with a the force of an earth-shattering revelation.

 _I'm in love,_ he thought. He gripped the satchel tighter. _God forgive me, I'm in love with him._ The feeling had been there for so long, swirling around in his chest and tingling over his skin with every smirk and wry comment... How had it taken him so long to name it? What he'd first written off as simple lust had rooted itself deeper and deeper the more he wilfully ignored it and now he'd stopped to examine it again, he felt it running further into his heart than he'd ever thought possible. He recalled the walk through the streets. Would he have felt so enamoured with life, if not for the man beside him? Would he have savoured the crêpes quite so much if they hadn't been a gift from him? Would he have reacted so violently against that racist fae if he had targeted some other Unseelie fairy? The further back he looked through his memories, the more he noticed the hallmarks of this love, the ones even he had been blind to. How long had he loved Crowley? Hours? Weeks? Months? 

He sat on his bed with a raging storm inside him, directionless and impotent. He ought to have been happy. He'd spent millennia hoping for this connection, but of course his blind heart had gone and settled on the one person he could never have. How would he ever justify a marriage to an Unseelie fae, especially one so infamous? Much as he hated the sharp divide between their races, it was undeniable. It would be an enormous step forward for Seelie-Unseelie relations, but it would also be a step straight off a cliff and into the unknown. No Queen had ever married outside their race. He sniffled, resting his head on his satchel. Today had been far too perfect. It was a fantasy, something to be tainted by the harsh reality that it would never come to pass. Agnes's prophecy flashed through his mind again: _eyes like gemstones..._ Visions of Gabriel, illuminated by the sunrise, flashed in his mind. 

Aziraphale tossed the thought from his head as soon as it came, but the damage was done. A sob ripped from his throat. He pressed his hand over his mouth, muffling it as tears left their burning tracks on his skin. It wasn't _fair._ Gabriel didn't deserve anything from him, least of all his love. Another sob wracked his body. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be how he was meant to live. Crowley deserved to know how he felt. Even if he didn't reciprocate, Aziraphale wanted to tell him... But what would it do? There would be nowhere to go from there. It was a dead end. 

_Crowley wouldn't want you to cry over him,_ said a small voice in his head, one that sounded suspiciously like the Dullahan himself. He sniffled, and wiped the tears from his eyes. That much was true. The whole point of taking him to the market that morning had been to cheer him up, and here he was, sobbing his heart out. It was hardly repaying Crowley for the day he'd planned. 

Swallowing his grief, Aziraphale set aside the satchel, and stepped into his bathroom. He'd take off his makeup, shed his disguise, and step back into his life like nothing had happened. Well, nothing but the best day of his life, anyway. That's how he'd remember today. Even after Crowley left the realm altogether, he'd look back on today as the first and only day he'd ever fallen in love. Gabriel may one day take his hand, but he would never have his heart. That was Crowley's, and Crowley's alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok another early update   
> 1) because the week without WiFi felt like forever and I miss you guys   
> 2) there’s a chance I won’t have WiFi next week either so... gotta make sure this gets posted just in case


	18. The Fallout

The throne had been empty all day. Whispers spread through the lower echelons of the court, and all eyes quickly turned to the four dukes. Gabriel put on his best smile. Sandalphon was quick to follow his lead, and they stood at the foot of the throne's steps, handling each visitor to the palace in turn. If anyone asked where the Queen was, Gabriel would give them some dismissive response, assuring them that he had more pressing matters to attend to. As the morning progressed, it became more and more clear that Aziraphale was not attending court. There was one other glaring omission: Crowley. Vile rumours were no doubt occurring already, dredged out of the quiet fears they'd all held since the Dullahan had first arrived. 

Gabriel briefly muttered something in Uriel's ear. She nodded, and turned to Michael. "You should look for the Queen. We're needed here," she said quietly. Michael's brow furrowed, stung by the implication that he wasn't. "He trusts you."

 _He ought to trust us all,_ he thought bitterly as he turned to leave without another word. He didn't blame Aziraphale for being wary, though. He felt the same. He and Gabriel had a friendship of convenience; Gabriel had the charisma to rally the court, and Michael had history with the Queen. They made a formidable team, but they had a common goal that only one of them could achieve. Until Aziraphale had chosen a husband, they'd always be rivals in an uneasy alliance. With Crowley in the picture, at least they had a common enemy as well. 

He checked the private dining room first. It was empty, with no sign that anyone had even eaten in there. He frowned; that was odd. Next, he went to the study. No one there either. Perturbed, he turned around and half-jogged through the halls until he came to the spiral staircase leading to Aziraphale's bedroom. He hesitated for a moment. It was not good manners to enter such a private space, but he was starting to get concerned. He mounted the staircase.

He arrived at the door, which was firmly closed. He held his ear to it, dreading the thought of hearing soft, sensuous moans on the other side. It was silent. He breathed a small sigh of relief. He hadn't seriously believed Sandalphon when he'd suggested that Aziraphale might fall into bed with the Dullahan, but this morning had shaken him up. He felt silly for entertaining the idea. He knocked sharply on the door. "Your majesty? Sire? Are you in there?" he called. No one responded. He knocked again, harder. "Court session started hours ago... Aziraphale?"

He swallowed nervously. He didn't often use Aziraphale's name, not anymore. "Aziraphale, I'm opening the door," he said, reaching for the doorknob. It turned so far and stopped abruptly. Locked. Frustrated, he rattled it desperately, trying to jostle it free somehow. A sharp pain speared his palm.

He leapt back with a cry. Droplets of blood ran down his hand, and the thorn that had sprouted from the doorknob slowly withdrew back into the wood. He gripped his handkerchief tightly in his fist to stem the bloodflow, and sighed. The tree clearly didn't take kindly to unwanted visitors to the master bedroom. It didn't seem that Aziraphale was in anyway. For some reason, he'd vanished from all his usual places. He retreated back down the steps, hoping that he was just elsewhere in the palace. It was a vast tree, after all, with a warren of halls from the roots to the top of the trunk. He could be anywhere in-between. He tried to swallow back a sense of brotherly protectiveness. Underneath all the politics, all the years of stress and disagreements, he feared for Aziraphale. Wherever he was, Crowley had almost certainly followed. Michael didn't trust that fairy as far as he could throw him; he was a distraction and a temptation, something to be avoided, something to be wary of. Aziraphale just didn't see it. 

Aziraphale reappeared again around mid-afternoon. Judging by the light rose scent rolling off him, he was fresh out of the bath, yet he made no comment. He didn't even address his absence that morning. He simply settled behind his desk, and set to work, accepting the odd visitor as the day drew on. Gabriel asked where he'd been, only to get a vague response about managing a disturbance elsewhere. Michael smelt a rat. Aziraphale often skirted around the truth, leaving grains of it in his half-convincing explanations. He suspected he'd gone down to the market that morning, undercover, no doubt bringing Crowley along for protection. The Dullahan was the perfect secret-keeper, after all. He uneasily kept his thoughts to himself. He'd only share that suspicion with Gabriel if he needed to. 

Perhaps he suspected that Michael was holding something back, because he called another secret meeting that night, when the moon was already high overhead. He was the last to arrive. 

"Good of you to join us, Michael," Gabriel said slyly. 

"I'm on time," he replied evenly, sitting at the table. "Why have you called us here, Gabriel?"

"Is it not obvious?" Sandalphon cut in snidely. "Crowley must be responsible for the Queen's disappearance today. Events are accelerating."

"We don't know what happened exactly," he replied carefully, leaning back in his chair. 

"That's the problem," Uriel said, half-draped in shadows, and half-gilded by the flickering lantern on the table. "He's being secretive. He's hiding things from us."

 _Aren't we doing the same?_ he wondered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "As far as we know, Crowley is still set to leave when his horse gives birth. The more we interfere, the more we stand to lose," he said. 

Gabriel held up his hand to stop him. "We're safeguarding the Queen, Michael. We have everything to lose, if we fail," he said. Or rather, _he_ had everything to lose: the crown, the Queen, his reputation... The longer he thought on it, the more he realised that if Crowley was given the crown, it would spell the end of his unrivalled influence at court. No one would dare listen to him over the chosen king. The same went for the others, too. It was unspoken fact, that they were safeguarding their own interests just as much as they were supposedly safeguarding Aziraphale's.

"Do we have a plan?" Sandalphon asked curiously. 

" _I_ have a plan," he replied. "But I will need your full support..."

Crowley was just about to have a nap when he first heard it. He'd found a tree in the gardens whose leaves were thick enough that you wouldn't notice him unless you really looked, and he'd clambered up to the thickest branch to have his snooze in the sun-dappled shade. He'd have liked to take the nap in his serpent-form, but that was completely out of the question. At least he had full control over his transformations at the moment; heaven forbid he began to slip between the two. He almost laughed. That would be almost comedically horrifying, if Aziraphale was simply strolling along, minding his own business, when a half-asleep serpent falls out of a tree right on top of his head. As he began to let his eyes slide shut, a thread of a nearby conversation drifted up from below. 

"But the investigation was closed," Uriel said, half in an undertone. "The Queen _himself_ said there was nothing more that could be done."

"He never showed anyone his notes. That's odd, isn't it?" replied Sandalphon in a sly drawl. Crowley sat up with a frown, peering down through the branches. He could see the tops of their heads as they loitered under the tree, looking this way and that as if worried they'd be overheard. "He wouldn't let anyone else help him."

"It was a royal matter," she replied, and for once Crowley found himself nodding along in agreement. It was best handled alone. 

"Or it was a cover-up," he said, sounding very pleased with his conclusion. Crowley gawked. He had half a mind to drop down from the tree and smack him just for saying that. There had been underhand dealings all the way along when the crown went missing, but none of it had anything to do with Aziraphale. "You didn't hear this from me, but... Gabriel has suggested that he was protecting the Dullahan. He was the real thief, and the Queen knew all along."

Crowley's nails dug into the tree bark as he suppressed a furious hiss. He thought he'd moved past this cloak-and-dagger rubbish. That bastard was still trying to frame him... 

"You think he'd defend a criminal in his own palace?" she said.

"Gabriel thinks so," he said. Sandalphon paused, glancing around again. Crowley leaned forward again, looming over their heads amongst the branches. "He's going to inform the lieutenant of the guard tonight, and then we'll see who was really behind it all."

"Won't the Queen be offended? Going behind his back like that?" she said, while Crowley quietly seethed. 

"Certainly. But what choice has he given us?" he said as they began to move out from under the tree. "If he can't accept the truth on his own, we'll have to help him."

They left the shadow of the tree, and continued their conversation in voices so hushed that it wouldn't carry. They schooled themselves carefully not to look back. That would give away the whole illusion, and they couldn't afford to spoil the plan so easily. "Do you think he'll take the bait?" Sandalphon asked idly as the approached the palace steps.

"He must," she said. "We've given him no choice."

Crowley strode through the palace halls with a single-minded purpose. _If that purple-eyed prat thinks he's getting rid of me that easily, he's got another thing coming,_ he thought fiercely. _No way am I going to rot in prison while he's up here scratching at Aziraphale's bedroom door._ He ought to have expected Gabriel to try undermining Aziraphale when his little plot fell flat the first time. He probably already had the evidence forged and waiting to be discovered. He'd need to discredit the Young family entirely to dismantle his alibi, maybe even implicate them in the theft, and that thought only stoked the anger in Crowley's gut. Gabriel certainly had the means. He had half a mind to break his nose just for the fun of it, but that would only get him in trouble. One thought was getting to him more than anything... If this went to trial, he’d have to take an oath: to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and with Aziraphale there, the obvious thing to do would be to invoke his true name and bind him to that oath. That was all very well and good to prove his innocence of that crime, but it would also force him to reveal his darkest secret, the _whole_ truth... It would force him to plead guilty to being the serpent. A shiver went down his spine; he couldn’t take that risk. Gabriel was pushing too hard, hoping something would break, and he was unwittingly getting dangerously close to what he wanted. 

Whenever he found himself in a deserted corridor, he allowed his serpent-tongue to flicker out past his lips and taste the air. He found Gabriel's scent among the tangle in the air, smelling strongly of aftershave and ego. He followed it right to the archives, which took up the whole floor beneath the library near the top of the tree. The whole place was crowded with paper scrolls and neatly bound books in perfect A-Z order. He stalked between the shelves, eyes scanning back forth between the narrow paths. Gabriel was here somewhere. Planting evidence, maybe... Crowley set his jaw hard to make sure he didn't hiss out of spite. The last thing he needed was to start a rumour that there was a snake in the palace, however true it might be. At long last, he rounded a corner and spotted that pale grey suit beneath an arched window, with a book open in his hand.

"Oi, Gabriel," he barked, storming toward him. Gabriel looked up, genuinely taken aback that he'd been found so quickly. Crowley was supposed to find him later in the conference room, after 'overhearing' Michael mention he had a meeting there with him. How had he known he'd be in the archives? 

"Crowley," he said, hiding his surprise quickly; no matter. The plan could be carried out here just as easily. He put on a false smile. "Can I help you with something?" 

"I've heard what you've been telling people. About the crown theft, about Aziraphale," he said, baring his teeth as he spoke. Even if Crowley’s name could be cleared, the corruption scandal would tar Aziraphale’s reputation forever. No one had his true name to bind him to telling the truth. Doubt would always linger. If Crowley was innocent, who else was he secretly covering for? That was Gabriel’s play; he knew Crowley wouldn’t stand and watch as Aziraphale’s name got dragged through the mud. 

Gabriel closed his book softly, holding it by his side. "And you've come to hand yourself in."

"I've come to tell you to pack it in, that's what," he spat. He jabbed a finger at him. "I'm not playing these games."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," he said, folding his hands in front of him over the book. 

"You don't f — ? You set me up, you bastard," he said, flaring up with rage. Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “You’re setting up your own Queen.”

"That's a very serious accusation," he said evenly. "I hope you can back it up."

"Back it up with a kick up the arse," he muttered mutinously. 

Gabriel sensed his chance. "Was that a challenge?" he said, setting aside the book in anticipation. 

Crowley sneered. "What if it was?"

"Then it's a duel," he said with an unpleasant grin. _Exactly as planned — he even did it himself!_ he thought. "A fight 'til someone yields or can't continue."

"I know what a duel is," he snapped. He looked him over suspiciously. "What if I win?"

He held up his hands. "Then I'll drop my investigation, and never speak of it again. But if you lose, and you will lose..." he said. "You leave the Queendom forever, horse or no horse."

He gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, right. Why would I risk that?" he said, crossing his arms. "I need Azrael to get home."

He shrugged carelessly. "Alright then. I'll just continue with my investigations into the theft of the crown. I already have enough evidence to make my case," he said, about to brush past him. Crowley caught his arm sharply, his nails digging in through his coat. Gabriel smirked. "You can't stop me, Crowley. Not without killing me, and we've been over that before."

"Fine. Have it your way. The duel, then," he said tightly. "Pick your weapon."

"Battle magic," he said. "Tomorrow at noon, in the guards' sparring yard."

"You're on."

Aziraphale's private garden was one of his safe havens, when he couldn't afford to venture out into the woods. It was nestled at the very base of the tree, in a secluded open-air hollow formed by the enormous roots. It caught the best of the sunshine, though Aziraphale often sat beneath the small parasol at his table near the back, out of view of the gate. He sometimes locked it behind him, and kept very quiet if anyone came looking for him. It didn't happen often. He'd managed to convince most people that this garden was a very exclusive royal space, and that they should only look for him there in the case of a serious emergency. 

He sat at his table, listening to the rhythmic croak of the frogs beside the pond. They sheltered under the boulders that formed the shore, and sometimes he saw lizards bathing in the sunshine on the warm rocks. He sat back, trying to enjoy his tea in peace, breathing deeply from the floral scents on the air. Setting his teacup down gently, he looked across the garden. One day, he hoped he'd share this space. There was room for children to run and play together and, if he banished the thought of who their father would likely be, he could allow himself a tender smile. _One day,_ he thought. _One day..._

"Aziraphale!" cried a familiar voice, growing louder as they ran down the narrow, twisted path through the roots toward the garden gate. "Aziraphale, are you there?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and stood up, emerging into view of the gate with a pout. "Adam, I thought I'd made it very clear that this is a private royal space," he said testily. He walked closer, peering between the black bars of the gate. "Is it important?"

"Yeah, promise. There's gonna be a duel, tomorrow at lunchtime," he said, panting. He'd run over as soon as he'd heard. Aziraphale tutted, rolling his eyes.

"Good lord. A duel? More fool the poor souls who started it," he said, turning his nose up. "If nothing else, I hope it teaches them a lesson. Thank you for telling me, Adam, but I shan't be getting involved. I don't endorse violence for no good reason."

He half-turned to go back to his chair when Adam spoke up, stopping him in his tracks. "It's between Crowley and Gabriel," he said.

Crowley's door slammed open with tremendous force. “What the _devil_ do you think you're playing at?” Aziraphale shrieked. 

Crowley froze, a cup halfway to his mouth. "Um..." 

"Accepting a duel?" he continued, storming inside, wild-eyed with panic and anger. "I have never been so shocked. Do you have any idea how irresponsible, how — how _stupid_ that was? You could be hurt!"

He swallowed, staring wide-eyed behind his glasses at the disgruntled Queen. He was struggling for words, taken off guard. "Well... yeah," he said. "S'the point."

Aziraphale's glare only grew more acidic, and he sensed that he had made a mistake. He put his cup down, shrinking back a little. "Dare I even ask why you decided to get yourself into a fight with one of my dukes?" Aziraphale said.

He shrugged. "He was getting on my nerves," he said evasively. The whole point of this was to keep Aziraphale from suspecting him of any foul play, or worse, trying to interfere with Gabriel's plotting himself. That would only give weight to the rumour that Aziraphale was covering something up for Crowley's sake. "Come on, angel. I've been waiting for a chance to knock his teeth out for months."

He tugged haughtily at his waistcoat. "Violence is no way to settle your differences. It's a barbaric practice, and if there weren't inter-Queendom rules against it then I'd put the kibosh on the whole thing myself," he said. For a brief instant on his way over here, he'd considered storming in and commanding Crowley to withdraw, but... He remembered how he'd felt, the first time he'd invoked his true name. He wouldn't do that again. It was an evil, monstrous thing to have done, and the guilt still weighed on him, especially now he'd begun to face the way he really felt about Crowley. It broke his heart to even think of repeating it. He'd firmly sworn never to speak his true name again; he loved him too much to run that risk. 

"So what are you going to do?" Crowley said, watching him carefully. 

He paused for a long moment, then sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to watch," he said. "Something tells me you aren't going to forfeit the duel."

"Not a chance," he said. 

A flicker of a deep, mournful emotion passed over Aziraphale's face, so quickly that Crowley wasn't even certain he'd seen it. "Then just... please be careful," he pleaded. "People have died in duels before. They can be very unforgiving."

He scoffed. "He's a politician, not a soldier. How hard can it be?"


	19. The Living Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence & blood in this chapter, during the duel

Activity buzzed in the guards' sparring yard. It was a grey stone courtyard, open to the sky, cached in the western wall of the citadel. The arena was enclosed by raised viewing platforms on all sides, sheltered by slate overhangs held up by granite pillars. The older guards would watch from there, laughing and jeering in good spirits as their comrades trained for battles that seldom came, in this realm. Today, it was a very different scene. The informal character of the yard had been shrugged off, replaced by the mutterings of the courtiers who'd gathered to watch the duel. Not everyone was here. Many of the low-ranking nobles were expected to stay behind and pick up the slack while the others were away. Even so, there was a crowd of about ten people, plus the skittish guards stood by the doors. They didn't like this one bit. Duels usually meant that the court was fighting amongst itself, even if Crowley wasn't technically part of it. 

Gabriel stood at the edge of the yard, rolling up his sleeves. He kept a calm mask, speaking quietly to Michael. "If he doesn't show his face soon, I'll assume he forfeited," he said. 

"And if he does show up, then what?" he replied tensely, watching the door. "He's the Dullahan, Gabriel. This won't be an easy fight."

"He's all bark and no bite. I will win, Michael," he replied. The door rattled. All eyes turned to the edge of the courtyard as it began to swing open.

Gasps went up across the crowd. Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, his face tight with apprehension. Attending a duel as a spectator was a first for him. It occurred to him, as he mumbled a final _good luck_ to Crowley, that he'd probably shown a very obvious preference about his favourite to win when he arrived with one of the competitors. He couldn't quite bring himself to care. His gut churned with anxiety as he made his way around the edge of the yard, snapping his fingers. A chair appeared on the viewing platform. The courtiers parted, inclining their heads and greeting him respectfully as he brushed past them in a daze. Some whispered on the fringes of the crowd, where they thought he couldn't hear them. 

"I didn't think he'd be here!" one said.

"Told you so. The Dullahan is his favourite, everyone knows by now," their friend replied. Aziraphale huffed, doing his best to ignore them as he settled in his chair. Crowley had stepped into the courtyard, facing Gabriel. 

Uriel stood between them, her hands folded in front of her. "This is a fight until one of you yields or is unable to fight. You may not kill your competitor. There will be no rematches," she said, loudly and clearly, for all to hear. "Battle magic is the weapon of choice. Do either of you wish to forfeit the duel? This is your last chance to do so."

"I do not," Gabriel said, watching Crowley with a mocking glint in his eye. Crowley stared back; he still hadn't removed his sunglasses. He figured it might give him an advantage, if Gabriel couldn't see where he was looking. He’d made sure to stick them on with a clever little charm he’d picked up from the time he couldn’t get a picture to hang straight in his house. 

"Me neither," he said, with a tiny glance in Aziraphale's direction. The Queen sat straight in his chair. He looked more frightened than Crowley. 

"Are you both aware of the stakes, which were agreed prior to the challenge?" she continued. Both fae nodded tersely. Uriel backed away to a safe distance, then spoke. "Then let the duel begin."

A blast of purple magic slammed into Crowley's chest, throwing him to the floor. He skidded most of the way across the yard before coming to his senses again. He rolled, barely avoiding another strike. Sparks hissed on the stone. He lunged across the yard, keeping low the ground on serpentine instinct. He eyed his opponent, circling. He kept one hand out in front of him, poised for a spellcasting motion. Gabriel paused, eyeing it, gauging how to react... Crowley flicked his other hand, drawing a long golden whip out of thin air, striking while he was unprepared. The crowd gasped. 

"Golden magic," Michael whispered in awe, beside Aziraphale's chair. Gold was not a common colour for the Unseelie. The whip cracked, releasing the smell of burning cloth and flesh into the air. Gabriel shrieked, clutching his shoulder, diving out of range. 

Crowley followed. The whip shifted into a sword, which he swung in a wide arc toward Gabriel's arm. There was no rule against maiming your opponent. Gabriel blocked it with a sword of his own, this one lavender purple. Metal screamed as he parried the blow. Crowley swung again, sending searing bolts of pain through Gabriel's wound with every strike he was forced to block. Crowley hissed as a blade whistled by his ear. Close combat wasn't his forte. He conjured a dagger in his other hand, blocking a swing and using that window to swipe low with the blade. Gabriel yelled, barely managing to escape a nasty gash to the abdomen. 

He fell back, face twisted with disgust. "Is this what you call an honourable fight?" he barked. 

"Winning isn't about honour, mate," Crowley replied, risking a momentary glance to Aziraphale. He was on the edge of his seat, entranced and terrified by the events unfolding before him. 

Gabriel took that advice. He lunged forward, stabbing down toward his belly while was distracted. Crowley heard Aziraphale wail in panic. A thoughtless burst of magic deflected the blade; it only grazed his side. He punched Gabriel in the side of his head, stunning him, and fell back. He clutched his side. Pain laced through his body as blood flowed out between his fingers. He curled his lip. He and Gabriel eyed one another, circling, waiting... 

Crowley feigned left, and went right. Heat clawed his back as three fireballs narrowly missed him in quick succession. He lunged forward. Gabriel came to meet him, slashing ruthlessly with his sword. Crowley yelled, pain screaming up his ribs, his flesh rent in a bloody line. Pain blurred his vision. He stumbled back, hearing a familiar shout from the crowd. _Aziraphale,_ he realised dumbly, barely dodging a punch. He shook his head, clearing it. Gabriel's blade whistled toward him. He dropped beneath it, rolling, and launching himself into a flying sprint across the yard. He was losing blood, but not fast enough to put him down. He had a duel to win. 

"Coward!" Gabriel bellowed after him. Crowley kept running, directly at a stone pillar. The crowd gasped. What was he _thinking?_ He didn't flinch, and took a flying leap feet-first at the stone.

The world titled, and Crowley sprinted skyward. Amazed gasps reached him from below as he ran up the vertical pillar, with a gleeful grin over his shoulder at his stunned opponent. A bark of laughter escaped him. He snapped his fingers, scattering sparks from his hands. Magic gathered in his palm as he reached the top of the pillar; his foot hit the lip of the roof, and he launched himself into the air. He twisted mid-air, silhouetted by the blazing sun, drawing back a wickedly sharp golden javelin. He hurled it groundward. Gabriel threw himself down, feeling the terrifying impact of magic on stone mere inches from his arm. The javelin was embedded deep into the rock, still swaying with the force of the impact. He panted, adrenaline-drunk. 

"Ha! You _miss — !"_

Crowley slammed down onto him, cutting off the taunt. Ribs snapped under his weight on landing, breaking his fall and drawing an audible wince from the crowd. Crowley clamped both hands over Gabriel's throat before he had a chance to scream. "Give up," he snarled, wrestling with the serpentine urge to just... keep... tightening his grip... "Give. Up."

He choked, colour draining from his face. He pawed at Crowley's hands, but his grip was like steel. His nails were beginning to draw blood, and Gabriel couldn't say a damn word, much less yield. Crowley didn't seem to care. He wouldn't let go. All the hate, the violence, the pain... it had brought out something very different in him, something with scales and fangs and cold, cold blood. Behind his glasses, the yellow bled out, overtaking his sclera and bringing with it the senseless fury of a snake backed into a corner. 

"Crowley!" someone cried, a note of familiarity forcing its way past his frenzy. He lifted his head, his lip half-curled in anger. Everything stopped when he saw Aziraphale. He'd stood from his chair, but daren't venture into the yard, half-poised at the edge with a look of fragile horror painting his face. 

_He's looking at me,_ he realised, the yellow in his eye sharply withdrawing back to his iris. His blood ran warm, and the treacherous scales that had been creeping up the back of his neck vanished again beneath his skin. No one was any the wiser. He let go of Gabriel's throat, letting him draw in a desperate gasp of air as he got to his feet. He staggered slightly, and a chill came over him as he realised how close he'd come to a full transformation. He'd almost given himself away. He looked at Aziraphale, burning with shame, hoping he could see the apology written in his features. He looked down at Gabriel, struggling to stand, dragging in deep breaths. 

He extended his arm. "Here," he said. There was a murmur or surprise among the courtiers. Gabriel eyed his hand suspiciously. "It won't bite you. Get up, come on."

He took his hand, and hauled himself to his feet, with Crowley's help. Aziraphale fell back down into his chair with a sigh of pure relief, pressing a hand over his chest. It was over. 

Or so he thought; Gabriel shoved Crowley backward, lashing out again with a flickering purple dagger, his magic weakened by the strangulation. "Oi!" Crowley yelled, lurching out of range. Aziraphale's gaze snapped back up. "I just let you go, you c — "

"I did not yield!" he screamed, hoarse and wild-eyed. The spectators watched, stunned and utterly mute, as their proudest duke fell to pieces in front of them. "You have _not won!"_

He hurled the dagger. Crowley sidestepped, letting it embed itself in the door behind him. He gawked. Weakened or not, Gabriel’s bodily strength hadn't failed him. He looked back, just in time to dodge another. More followed. Each one grew more formless, more volatile, more unstable. "Gabriel! Stop this at once!" Aziraphale shouted, going to step down into the arena when Michael grabbed his arm. 

"Your majesty, you can't," he said, flinching every time a new blade flew. "Even you can't interfere with a duel."

Dissatisfied but powerless, Aziraphale nervously watched Crowley dodge the near-shapeless magic being hurled at him. He conjured a shield, its golden surface deflecting each one with a shower of sparks and the ring of sorcery in the air. He circled around the yard, keeping the deranged Gabriel at a distance. Every time he dared to peek over the top of his shield, another projectile skimmed his head. Crowley had to get close enough to take him down, or this would go on forever; Gabriel wasn’t used to losing. 

Gabriel charged another blast of magic, something that had all the sharp edges of a knife but none of the form, and hurled it with a scream of anguish. It cut through the air, clanging against Crowley's shield. He raised his arm, deflecting the unstable weapon over his shoulder at the wall. What-was-supposed-to-be-a-blade hit the curved face of a pillar, scattering granite chips... and rebounded, launching itself directly at Crowley. 

The first thing he knew about it was a sharp pain in the back of his neck. The blade bit hard, severing the vertebrae, tearing out the other side of his throat in a mist of blood. It took everything on the way through. Aziraphale shrieked. The blade lost its momentum, dispersing into a lavender vapour that mixed with the fading shield’s gold-dust in the still air of the sparring yard. Crowley's head hit the floor. His body landed beside it a second later, and the heavy thump of deadweight on the stone was the only thing that dared break the silence. 

The dust settled, and Gabriel couldn't breathe. It was like those hands were around his throat all over again, choking the life out of him from beyond the grave. Stares weighed heavy on his back. They scorched his skin, flickering between his back and the sight of the body sprawled over the stone floor, weeping blood as if there was still a heartbeat there to drive it. The court, the dukes, the Queen... Oh god, the Queen... Slowly, he turned, stumbling forwards to drop to his knees before him, trembling. 

Aziraphale was as still as the grave. Reality had not quite sunk its teeth in yet, that the body of the man he loved was lying barely thirty feet away. That Gabriel — _Gabriel,_ of all people — had murdered him right before his eyes. He tightened his fists. It was the only sensation that reached his head, apart from the sight of those purple eyes, watery and horror-struck. He was terrified. _So he should be,_ whispered a dark corner of his heart, though all of it had belonged to the Dullahan.

He drew in a deep, strained breath. The air began to hum with magic, and the courtiers drew back from their Queen, wide-eyed, wary of any sudden movements. It seemed, for all the world, that Aziraphale would put Gabriel to death right before their eyes. The Great Blossom Tree, ever-watchful from over the courtyard walls, groaned and creaked ominously, moved by its Queen’s wrath. Aziraphale knew that the moment he went to kneel beside Crowley's body, grief would settle to replace the rage... Only Gabriel barred his path. He fixed him with a hollow, hateful stare as he begged for his life.

”Your majesty, my Queen... I... I am deeply remorseful,” he stammered, remembering just how small he was in the eyes of this ancient fae. Crowley's hand twitched. ”Words can not express...”

Aziraphale’s eyes drifted, resting on the headless body over Gabriel’s shoulder. It had been a trick of the shadows, surely... or post-mortem spasms. Gabriel continued his pleading. Crowley's arm began to move. Aziraphale stopped breathing, along with every cowering noble, as the body pushed itself to its feet. 

It swayed for a moment before gaining its balance. It straightened its shirt, before seeming to notice the audience. _Seeming to_ was the operative phrase; it had no eyes, but was apparently able to see. It waved cheerily at Aziraphale. He would have waved back, but a distinct sense of unreality had pushed manners from his mind. 

"Please, your majesty, believe me, I had no intention of killing him," Gabriel blabbered, a sinking feeling overcoming him as he vied for the Queen's attention. He still seemed to be focused on the body.

Gabriel wasn't _wrong,_ per se, for thinking so... It’s just that said body had now conjured a sizeable gold club, and was miming theatrical practice swings at his head. If anyone had been in any doubt whether this spectre was still Crowley, he was about to answer them. He stepped to the right, and tapped Gabriel’s left shoulder. Gabriel jumped, bemused to find nobody there. Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a semi-hysterical laugh. That trickster...

Gabriel turned as a long shadow fell over him from the other side. "They don't call me the headless horseman for nothing, mate," Crowley's head called from the ground as his body drew his club back.

_THUNK_

Gabriel crumpled like a ragdoll, unconscious. Crowley’s club dissipated into a fine gold mist, and his body dusted off its hands in satisfaction. Aziraphale stared blankly, wishing he could scream just to release a little from the pressure valve holding back his storm of twisting, changing emotions. Crowley’s body promptly turned, wandered over to pick up its head, and began brushing off the dust. The court, for once, was speechless. A few began to look to the Queen for a response. None was forthcoming. Crowley finally raised his head up and rejoined the two halves of his neck, which knitted themselves together as if they'd never been apart. He groaned, rolling his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Ugh. Hate getting decapitated," he complained, readjusting his sunglasses (the sticking charm had held firm, thankfully) and wandering back over to the Queen. He looked up at him, a little unnerved by the continued silence. "What? You didn't forget about that, did you? That's like, my whole _thing."_

Aziraphale stared, open-mouthed. "I - I don't even know where to _begin_ with you," he said, his false scorn thinly veiling the deluge of relief and love washing over him in waves as he regained the ability to breathe. He glanced down at the nobleman by his feet. "But... I suppose I shall start with that fact that it does rather appear you've won."

Crowley listlessly pumped his fist, and began dragging his feet toward the door. "Wahoo. Great. Go me, now will someone get me an ice pack and a drink?" he said, while Aziraphale stepped daintily over Gabriel's unconscious form to follow him out of the yard, tutting fondly. Crowley paused, turning to face the courtiers while pointing vaguely at his defeated opponent. "Oh, and someone probably wants to check on him. I hit him quite hard."

Word of the duel had spread like wildfire that morning, sweeping aside every other topic of conversation in the city. Some canny fae had placed bets on the outcome. No one could agree, though, on who was most likely to win. Some thought Gabriel was the surefire victor; he was fighting on home territory, and he had chosen the weapon. Others argued differently.

"He's the Dullahan, plain and simple!" shouted one drunkard, locked in one such argument outside a tavern. "The Duke's a fool to have challenged him. He's a dead man. Mark my words."

For the gambling folk of the city, Crowley's title alone wasn't enough to convince them. The debates raged all through the morning in the betting rooms, in the fields and across garden fences. When Crowley emerged, bloodied but smiling, from the sparring yard with the Queen at his side, those discussions fell silent. Gabriel followed them out shortly after, still unconscious, on a stretcher. Whoops and hollers followed Crowley and Aziraphale through the streets as they passed, and bags of coins were tossed between friends as they paid out their bets. Crowley stood as straight as he dared, still clutching his bleeding side, soaking in the cheers from those who'd bet their coins on him. 

Aziraphale tutted and rolled his eyes. His heart was still racing from that horrific moment when he'd thought he'd lost him. He was barely conscious of the fact that he was holding Crowley's arm. He needed the contact. He needed to feel him there, real and alive and victorious, even if they were in public. Now he'd won the duel fair and square, Aziraphale took a moment to think back on the battle, on the wily tactics Crowley had used to take on a larger enemy, his bravery, his skill... Even when he started to lose himself, he'd listened to Aziraphale's plea. He helped his opponent up, despite the hatred between them. Aziraphale wasn't blind to that. He glanced up at Crowley, grinning and suavely accepting the praise and congratulations being thrown his way. Aziraphale sighed dreamily. Though he tried to hide it, the pure admiration in his eyes didn't go unnoticed by anyone — well, apart from Crowley himself.

That night, the tavern by the gatehouse heaved with activity. The guards' working day came to an end, and the soldiers who'd stood guard during the duel burst into the warm drinking hall to a heroes' welcome. They re-told the duel in the breaths they took between gulps of ale, with broad gestures and quips that left the whole hall roaring in drunken laughter. The story quickly escalated into a re-enactment, with the two of them staggering into one another on the tavern tables, swatting at one another and trying to recreate the fight, to the great amusement of the watching crowd. 

"An - And he said _you missed!_ " cried the guard playing Gabriel. "And then — !"

The other guard promptly tackled him off the table, into a tangle of limbs on the floor. The hall shook with laughter, and surrounding crowd hauled the two of them back to their feet. "Yeah, that happened!" the guard cried, unabashed, too drunk to do anything but grin madly. 

The story that stumbled its way out of the tavern that night was half-truth, half-embellishment, but it left everyone tittering and excited. Crowley had been elevated from an Unseelie interloper to a loveable rogue in one day, like the beloved underdogs in everyone's favourite fireside tales. The duel became somewhat of a local legend, in the coming days. It would be passed around and re-told in various incarnations across gardens and over letters, spreading between Queendoms and caravan trains alike, cementing Crowley for the first time as a hero in the history of the Blossom Queendom. 

Crowley really had hit Gabriel hard. Anathema had her work cut out to stabilise him, and try to make sure he hadn't left any lasting damage. To be on the safe side, she decided to keep him in an induced coma for a while, until she was satisfied that he'd properly recovered. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she found him arrogant, self-absorbed and boring, and would rather he be asleep while he was in her care*. Without him, the court would go on. Sandalphon took on most of his duties in his absence. 

*Although it is worth noting that Aziraphale was very quick to agree with her decision to keep him that way for a while. 

Aziraphale relaxed considerably, knowing Gabriel wasn't around for the time being, and therefore the gemstone prophecy could not possibly be fulfilled. He found himself enjoying his mornings on the balcony again, and trotted into court each time afterward with a spring in his step. Crowley was a bit worse for wear after the duel, but he still showed his face around the palace between his hours of bed rest. Anathema was too preoccupied with Gabriel to nag him about it, anyway. 

He even managed to visit Azrael, whose belly now swelled very obviously with her growing foal. It would still be a while before the birth, though. Mercury trailed her around in the meantime, grooming her fur and letting her take the best of the food. He was smitten. Crowley would've laughed at him once, but now he knew the feeling. He hoped he wouldn't get impaled when it finally came time to take Azrael home again. He tried to ignore that bitter thought. His grief and terror had settled into quiet, wounded resignation. Leaving would protect Aziraphale forever, and he would at least sleep peacefully at night knowing that he was safe, somewhere out there in the world, even if he was alone. Well, maybe not. Crowley would be kidding himself if he thought Aziraphale felt the way he did. He'd find someone he really loved one day, some dashing Seelie nobleman who would come and sweep him off his feet, and the Queendom would be complete. He smiled ruefully, resting his arms on the fence as he watched Azrael and her mate graze together. Aziraphale would be happy one day, without him. He held on to that thought until his knuckles turned white; it was all he had to comfort himself. He just had to make sure nothing delayed his departure again. 

Even with _goodbye_ looming on the horizon yet again, he couldn't help but keep seeking out Aziraphale's company. Without the vocal criticisms of Gabriel, they were side-by-side almost every moment of the day, so much so that Crowley didn't even think twice about wandering up the stairs to Aziraphale's bedroom early one morning. It was still dim and grey outside, but he knew the Queen would be awake. Sleep was a matter of utility for him, not of pleasure. He didn't like to stay in bed any longer than he had to. 

Aziraphale opened the door, peeking suspiciously through the gap when he heard someone knocking. He lit up when he saw who. "Ah! Crowley," he said, opening the door. "Come in, good morning. You're up early."

"Thought I'd drop by," he said with a shrug, stepping inside. The room was dim, with a breeze wafting in from the open balcony door. "Ah. Sitting outside again?"

He looked over and hummed thoughtfully. "I think you can afford to sit with me for a few minutes, at least," he said hesitantly. "No one's ever awake at this hour. You won't be seen."

"If you're sure," he said, taking a seat on the small table, where his tea tray was already laid out. 

Aziraphale sat back with a deep breath of the clean early morning air. "You've become the talk of the town since the duel, you know," he said, his hands folded neatly in his lap. "Just yesterday, I heard children pretending to be you for one of their little games. They even had little sunglasses."

He smirked. "Yeah, I've seen that too," he said. Ironically, he'd even seen one group of kids playing out an epic battle between the Dullahan and the Serpent. 

"Adorable, isn't it?" he said, with a soft smile. Crowley nodded. "Though I have heard some terrible exaggerations of the story already. It was only a few days ago!"

He shrugged. "That's reality, angel. Storytellers do what they want with it," he said. He looked out over the city, to the horizon beyond which was just beginning to burn with the first light of sunrise. "When do people start to wake up 'round here?"

"Oh, well after sunrise, in this part of town," he said, picking up his teacup and taking a long sip. He held it there beneath his nose, breathing in the steam. "You can take off your sunglasses, you know. It's still awfully dark to be wearing them."

He fidgeted uncomfortably, and shook his head. "Best not," he said, scratching his neck awkwardly as the sun came up even further, beginning to illuminate the tree. "My eyes tend to creep people out."

Aziraphale scowled. "Is _that_ why you've been wearing them all this time? Because you're worried I'll get — what is that phrase you used? _Creeped out?_ " he said, slightly offended. "Honestly, Crowley. I've seen your head fall off. I'll be impressed if anything manages to scare me off by now."

With a huff, he reached for his glasses. "Fine, but you're the one having nightmares," he muttered, and took them off. Aziraphale took another long drink of tea before glancing over to see what all the fuss was about. 

Dawn had cast Crowley's features in autumnal light, sharpening his cheekbones and softening the shadows under his brow. He was looking down at the table, avoiding his gaze, until he knew he couldn't hold out any longer. He lifted his head. Aziraphale's breath caught as he saw the deep amber eyes staring back at him over the rim of his teacup, sliced through with a dark pupil that was unlike anything he'd seen before in his life. He was entranced by them. They reminded him of the flawless yellow diamonds set into the bracelet he'd been gifted at the start of springtime. He'd barely drawn another breath before the realisation hit him: _He is your king, Great Blossom Tree; him, and him only._

The teacup slipped from his hand, shattering on the balcony floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this it? Is this the cruelest cliffhanger I’ve ever written? Is this the cruelest cliffhanger I’m ever going to write*? Hehehehehehehe.......
> 
> *No.


	20. The Unspoken Command

"Angel?" Crowley said, flinching. He shrank back in his chair, cringing beneath his shocked, hollow stare. "Told you it was a bad idea."

He went to grab his glasses, startling Aziraphale back to himself. "No! I... I just... realised something," he said, swallowing thickly. He sat forward in his chair, determined to speak before the shock wore off and his confidence abandoned him. 

Crowley took a sharp intake of breath. _Shit, shit! My eyes! Snake’s eyes, fuck, I’m an idiot — he figured it out!_ He panicked, cursing himself furiously, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. He expected the burning heat of Seelie magic to crash into him at any moment, giving Aziraphale his window to escape. 

"I have a book. One called _The Further Nice And Accurate Prophecies Of Agnes Nutter,"_ he said with a skittish smile, hesitant to speak. Crowley looked ready to bolt at any moment. "I came into possession of it rather recently, you see, and... and there is a particularly interesting prophecy in there, if you'd care to hear it."

"Right..." he said slowly, tentatively relaxing his grip on the chair. He wasn't acting like he'd realised his mortal enemy was sat across from him, so what was he thinking? Aziraphale took a deep breath, and recited the prophecy, word for word. It had never left his mind since he read it that day. 

He looked at him expectantly. It didn't click. "Crowley... I believe Agnes was trying to tell me that, erm... that..." he said, his eyes darting everywhere that wasn't Crowley's face, and muttered something incomprehensibly fast. 

"Wot?" Crowley said, catching one or two words but unable to believe his ears. 

"That I should marry you," he blurted out, his voice cracking with nerves. Crowley stared. Aziraphale's cheeks heated up immediately, and he wondered if he'd gotten carried away by announcing it so quickly. 

"Ngk — Wha — S — Sorry, what?" he said, his heart skipping a beat. Several beats. In fact, he wasn't quite sure it was still beating at all. "Marry you?"

Aziraphale leapt out of his seat, and began pacing restlessly around the balcony. "Now just listen to me for a moment," he said, a little agitated. His emotions must've begun to spill over into magic, because Crowley suddenly found his mouth sealed shut, forcing him to listen. He didn't have a choice. Aziraphale had no idea what he was doing, assuming that Crowley was just willing to hear him out. "Thank you. I realise this is sudden, to say the least... but... well, I suppose now is the most appropriate time to mention that I do feel — erm — rather strongly about you, one might say."

Frozen by shock and still unable to speak, Crowley stared at him as he fluttered to and fro from the edge of the balcony. The sun rose higher every moment, bringing a day he thought would never come, a day he'd _hoped_ would never come. Aziraphale was dragging out all the complicated emotions he'd been trying to hide from for months. He was telling him they should get married. Crowley's conscience rejected the idea outright; king-of-prophecy or not, he was also the _serpent_ of prophecy. He'd psyched himself up for months to leave Aziraphale behind, for his sake. It was an offer he couldn't accept... no matter how much he wanted to. 

"I never thought that I'd... that I'd get a chance to tell you. That I admire you, that I — that I think I might even be able to say I lo — ahem, that I loathe the idea of you leaving again," Aziraphale continued, not facing him. He looked out over the city, the breeze stirring his uncombed hair. Crowley's insecurities began to whisper in his ear: _Hear that? He can't even tell you he loves you,_ it hissed. _How do you know you're not just the scraps that fate threw his way? That you weren't just in the wrong place at the right time?_

"Crowley?" he said, turning around when his ramblings were met with only silence. It was hard for him, to lay his heart bare so suddenly, but he felt that he owed Crowley nothing less, now that Agnes had torn down the barrier between them. But... Crowley wasn’t responding. Aziraphale’s stomach lurched, wishing he’d just... just... "Well, say _something!"_

His jaw finally unfused itself, and he sucked in a deep breath. "Angel, I... I don't know what to say," he said slowly, grasping for the right words to turn him down. Even if he took the risk and said yes, even if he took advantage of this stupid fluke of fate that gave him everything he wanted... He was still a serpent, _The Serpent._ If his secret got out, he’d stand accused of conspiracy to regicide, and wedding the Queen under false pretences. A dead snake slithering, in other words. Those crimes carried a death penalty, without question.

Aziraphale rested his hands nervously on the back of his empty chair, fiddling with his signet ring. "You could say yes," he murmured, barely audibly, but it was enough. Underneath his veneer of half-maintained formality and nervousness, he _wanted_ this. He wanted it more than anything. He'd pined and longed for a worthy king for eons, and here was his one and only chance. He loved him, and like Agnes had said in her prophecy... Crowley would be king, or no one would. If he slipped through his fingers, Aziraphale would rule alone forever. Those simple words he uttered, almost under his breath, _you could say yes,_ were full of such ancient and powerful yearning that he may as well have said _Anthony J Crowley, you will marry me._ His fate was sealed. 

"Yes," Crowley said, the word forcibly ripped from somewhere deep in his chest where he'd been hiding it under lock and key. He grasped at his throat in shock, eyes wide as he began to realise what he'd just said — or rather, what he'd had no choice but to say. 

Aziraphale gasped. "Really?" he said, stumped. He hadn't expected such a gentle plea to work. He had no idea that it had been more of an order than a plea, and it certainly hadn't been gentle. "You'll — You'll marry me? Just like that?"

"Yes," Crowley croaked again. That wasn't his choice, either; he was a bystander to his own engagement. He stared blankly at the table; expression escaped him. _This can't be happening,_ he thought, but it was far too cruel to be anything as banal as a nightmare. Everything he could ever want had been handed to him on a silver platter: a marriage to the man he loved, given freely... but he didn't have the option to say no, and a cold wave of terror hit him as he wondered if this was the true beginning of the steep, certain road to Aziraphale's death.

A beaming smile stretched his face. "O - Oh! Oh, how wonderful, Crowley, I — I had no idea that you felt that way about... about me," he said, deeply flattered, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. He wiped his eyes, determined not to cry. "Ahem. We should start planning right away. I do hate to rush these things, but with Gabriel asleep, there is no time to lose. I wouldn't want him to spoil anything for us."

"Course not," he said, a vacant look in his eye. There was a soft touch on his shoulder, startling him. 

"Crowley... I do appreciate your understanding, you know. This is moving far faster than I would like, too," he said timidly, then tried to clear his throat and seem decisive. Crowley found his clumsy attempts at comfort strangely endearing. "But we’ll have all the time in the world once the wedding is over and done with. We'll go at our own steady pace, as if we were courting I suppose, and — and this way, I won't be seen to be, um... fraternising."

That shook him from his stupor. "Fraternising?" he echoed scornfully. In the back of his mind, he was glad that Aziraphale didn't seem in a rush to jump straight into bed with him, at least. But... that's what he'd want, eventually. He needed heirs. As soon as Crowley had that ring on his finger, it became his responsibility to make sure he got them. His stomach twisted. He never thought he'd have children of his own, much less under circumstances like these. Who in their right mind would want to bear the Dullahan's children, after all? _A prophecy-mad Seelie Queen, apparently,_ was the dry remark from the back of his mind. 

Still... this wasn’t just any prophecy-mad Seelie Queen. This was _his_ Queen, and it wasn’t his fault. He had no idea the power of his words, and Crowley didn’t have the heart to hold it against him. He wanted this, after all. He loved him. He almost couldn’t believe his luck, apart from the underlying fear of what this could do to Aziraphale. It had been out of love that Crowley was so desperate to leave, to protect him, but now... Now, he didn’t know what to think, but he knew he was afraid. He only wanted Aziraphale to be safe, and his fate was entirely in his hands.

Michael was the last to arrive in the throne room, finding it full of courtiers with still no sign of Aziraphale. He sighed. That was nothing new; the Queen had been distracted since the duel, seemingly making the most of his time without Gabriel breathing down his neck. Michael wasn't eager to fill his shoes while he was recovering. It would do him no good to make Aziraphale resent him, too. 

The doors swung open, and Aziraphale walked into the throne room on Crowley's arm. The court murmured uneasily. They were getting bolder with showing their affection for one another, though today, Crowley looked shaken and pale. Michael's brow furrowed as he stood aside to let them pass. They stood before the throne, but Aziraphale didn't sit down, nor did he drop Crowley's arm. He gave a skittish smile.

"Good morning, everyone," he said with a tiny glance to Crowley, whose face has stiffened into unreadability beneath his sunglasses. He cleared his throat and pressed on; Crowley had never been a fan of court politics. Better to get this over with quickly, and save him the discomfort. "I'd like to begin with a short announcement, if it's all the same to everybody."

Michael came to the front, standing unobtrusively at the foot of the steps. Something had changed. Aziraphale was nervous, hesitating, with tension in his shoulders and his eyes flicking restlessly between the assembled faces beneath him... 

He coughed, and kept talking when no one responded. "Ahem. Yes, jolly good, well... To preface this, I suppose I ought to mention that I have recently come into possession of further prophecies of Agnes Nutter, which had been — erm — archived without my knowledge," he said. Excited whispers spread immediately, speculating and theorising, until they fell silent when Aziraphale pointedly cleared his throat again. "One of those prophecies pertained rather directly to my, um — that is to say, the individual who will share the throne. With me. Obviously."

Michael's heart stopped. Slack-jawed, he looked again at Crowley's ashen face, and began to realise what the Queen was about to say. The room held its collective breath, hanging on his every word. Aziraphale's heart fluttered. He was about to say it, about to make it real. He took a deep breath, briefly tightening his hold on Crowley's arm. Crowley automatically put his hand over his, steadying him.

"Thanks to this — ah, very direct guidance, I am delighted to announce my intention to marry Crowley," he said, stumbling only once over his words. He heard Crowley's breath catch when he said it. The court gasped. "The ceremony will take place on the next full moon, and everyone will be welcome to attend."

Crowley listened, mute and ambivalent. To him, the court was nothing less than a monster with many heads, whispering to itself and spitting venom, and it was doing nothing to calm his nerves. He fled as soon as he could. Luckily for him, Aziraphale didn't hold court that morning, seemingly just as eager to bail on their political hysteria until it burnt itself out. Aziraphale needed to go to his study to work, and for once Crowley really didn't feel like following him. 

"Oh? Are you certain?" asked Aziraphale when he said he'd leave him be. 

"Mm. Could use some time, just to... wrap my head around it all," he said, making a vague gesture to the palace while nausea churned his stomach. If he tried to come clean about his distress, he feared he'd only choke on his words. 

"Of course," he said, resting his hand on the door to his study. He hesitated. "I... I’d be more than happy to push the date of the ceremony back, if you'd prefer more time — "

Crowley shook his head. There wasn't much point struggling against it at this stage. In his experience, true-name commands were like quicksand. The more you fought, the worse it became. "S'fine," he said. He gave a tight-lipped smile. Love burned in his chest, stoked by the gentle worry in those blue eyes. He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting him, of what might be around the corner... "You make a start on the wedding planning, angel. I'll be back later."

"Very good, yes, I'll... I'll get cracking, then," he said, as his fiancé turned and sauntered down the hall and out of sight.

He slipped into his study, and sat pensively at his desk, wondering if he'd said something to upset him. Perhaps it was just the suddenness of it all. Aziraphale had been thinking on the matter of his marriage for almost six thousand years, whereas the notion may never have even crossed Crowley's mind. That, and the proposal must have been a shock! As any level-headed politician would agree, Crowley should never have even been a candidate to marry a powerful Seelie Queen, and he must have known so.

But he'd said yes when he was asked, hadn't he? Aziraphale had even asked twice, not quite believing his ears when he'd agreed the first time. Crowley had made a split-second choice, a remarkably daring one, and Aziraphale found himself smiling behind his desk. Of _course_ he had. This was Crowley: dauntless, clever, free-spirited Crowley. What else should he have expected?

Trying to focus back on the task at hand, he began to rifle through his drawers for some paper to start the wedding plan. Once the ceremony was done, they could start to build their relationship properly, slowly, bit by bit, without fearing that anyone would get in the way or accuse Aziraphale of promiscuity. For a while after such a bold choice, his reputation would be in a delicate position. The quicker they could hide behind the protections of marriage, the safer they’d be. They’d have the privacy and freedom to do as they pleased. Who would have the gall to try sabotaging an established royal marriage, after all?

Gabriel woke with a skull-splitting headache. He groaned, beginning to sit up, clutching at his bedsheets as he hissed in pain. A voice was beginning to cut through the watery haze surrounding his head, which set the world spinning and muffled his hearing. 

"Sir. Open your eyes, sir," it said firmly. He cracked one open, seeing the pale face of Anathema, framed by dark hair. "Good. Who's the current Queen?"

He squinted. "Azir... Aziraphale the first," he said, going cross-eyed as she held a stick in front of his nose. He tried to bat it away. She smacked his hand down, drawing a yelp of surprise from him. 

"No touch. Is the stick in focus?" she said. He nodded. She moved it. "How about now? Yes? Good. Hold still."

She grasped his head, and he cried out again indignantly as she pulled his left eyelid open. She snapped her fingers, shining a light directly into his eye. He grabbed her wrist, but pulled back again with a shout of pain when a bolt of electricity shot up his arm. He swore, cradling his arm to his chest. Nonplussed, Anathema shone a light in his other eye, taking full advantage of his pain. She hummed. 

The light in her palm died, and she took a step back to disinfect her hands. "Congratulations, Duke Gabriel. You're all clear. No lasting damage to your brain or eyes," she said as he continued to draw breaths through gritted teeth. Aftervisions blotted his view of the room. 

"What happened?" he groaned, blinking, his eyes watering. He was in the infirmary, but he didn't remember how. 

"Hm, didn't you hear? I thought you were there," she replied sardonically, jotting notes into his patient record. "You challenged the Dullahan to a duel. You lost. Unsurprisingly.”

He glared at her, propping himself up on his elbows. "He may have won the battle, but he hasn't won the war," he said, his voice gruff from disuse. 

Anathema made a sceptical noise. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"What? Why not?" he said, rubbing his temples. 

She tucked her clipboard under her arm. "You've been in a coma for weeks. Things have changed while you've been out," she said, moving past his bed with one last dry comment thrown over her shoulder. "The full moon is only days away."

The whole city roared with activity. They'd waited almost six thousand years for this, for their own royal wedding, but they'd never dreamed that it would so sudden, or so radical a choice of consort. Everyone had an opinion. Arguments broke out in every street about the wisdom of marrying the Dullahan. Some said that it was the obvious choice; he'd saved the Queen's life, he'd averted a war with the Unseelie, and he'd soundly defeated his greatest rival suitor in combat. He had everything they needed in a king. Others argued differently. They said that no Seelie realm should have an Unseelie monarch, though this group was split into those who accepted Crowley as consort but not as king, and those who rejected him altogether. Disputes raged between the many factions which appeared as the wedding ceremony loomed. 

Within the palace, the landscape was very different indeed. Left for so long without the divergent, commanding presence of Gabriel, they were skittish and uncertain. They looked at each of the three remaining Dukes in turn: Sandalphon had never been a leader, and paled at the responsibility; Uriel was too divisive a character to command the same respect as Gabriel; Michael was silent. He hardly spoke a word at court after the announcement. A war raged inside him, threatening to pull him apart from within. 

In his mind, Crowley had always been a threat. He still was. He embodied everything Michael had been afraid of for eons: death and darkness, wrapped in Unseelie magic and a charm that Aziraphale couldn't help but fall for. The neighbouring Unseelie Queendom had bullied, threatened and intimidated their people since time immemorial, forcing Aziraphale to navigate a political minefield to keep the peace between them. He was lucky that he was older than their realm. If he had been younger, they surely would have destroyed him while he was too weak to resist. To this day, Aziraphale insisted that the Unseelie couldn't be _inherently_ bad. Even after the threats he'd faced, he still believed that there was a spark of good in all of them, deep down inside. Michael wasn't so sure. Perhaps it was different, being a Queen, with all the hopes of your people resting on your shoulders; perhaps it made you want to believe that they had something to hope for. 

Unable to share his optimism, Michael had strayed from Aziraphale's side as the realm grew. He joined forces with Gabriel, to be ruthless when the Queen could not, to be cynical when he would not, to be heartless when he never would be. It was for the good of the Queendom. It was for the good of the Queen. That alone should have been enough to spur him to action against this marriage, but something made him hesitate. When Aziraphale looked at Crowley, he smiled in a way Michael hadn't seen for eons. But what did that matter, in the face of the greater good? He winced, feeling Gabriel's influence at work in his own head. He was right, though... if only Michael dared to do the things he did. He stood alone in a hallway, breathing deeply, wishing he could go back to that day thousands of years ago, the day when the future had looked so much brighter...

_The caravan wheels left deep furrows in the earth as Michael's ox trudged on, through the wintery rain. He cowered inside, with only the warmth of his oil lamp to sustain him, casting the inside of his caravan in swaying shadows. The storm tainted the air with frost, and the raindrops drove relentlessly on the roof. He rubbed his hands together, cursing. He should never have abandoned the others. He was hundreds of miles from the nearest Queendom, trapped in the biting cold of a human winter. There weren't even any mortal settlements here. The rolling hills and forests were wild and undisturbed. In summer, they'd be blushing with life, but that was months away. His ox snorted, tossing its head uneasily, drawing his attention._

_Squinting through the grey curtain of rain, he wondered what had spooked him. The storm swept his cloak back as he jumped down from the caravan, holding out his lamp to shed light on the forest path. The ox pawed at the wet earth. Michael looked down, his jaw dropping when he finally saw the source of his distress._

_There was a fairy ring in the path._

_Michael had passed this way a thousand times before with the travelling market, and there had never been a gateway here before. There was a realm here, yes, but it was empty, and the only entrance he knew of was several miles east. Hardly anyone used it, though. Why bother visiting an uninhabited realm? If a new gateway had opened, though, that had to mean... something had changed. Something big. He snatched his ox's bridle, tugging it onward, into the fairy ring._

_The rain stopped. Michael gasped in shock, plunged abruptly into a patch of sunshine that warmed his skin and rendered his lamp useless. Birds chirped merrily in the skies, sailing overhead without a care in the world. Wildflowers bloomed all around him, splashing colour into the waist-high meadow grass. "Oh my Lord," Michael said, setting his lamp down as he stared in awe at the summery scene enveloping him in the dead of winter. It could only mean one thing: a Seelie Queen had been born._

_With a giddy bark of laughter, he threw his cloak to the ground and broke into a sprint. His ox calmly watched him go, happy to munch on the grass. Michael didn't spare a thought for anything as he ran through the meadow, the warm air whipping past his face as he hared onward. He knew where he was going. It was in the atmosphere, in the earth, in every tweet and chirp of life around him; everything was tethered to its new sovereign, their invisible puppet-strings all leading to the epicentre of the new Queendom. Michael already began to count himself among them._

_He raced up an incline, breathing laboured, knowing he was getting close. He could feel it. He could feel that warm, guiding light of a ruler, one that felt right, the very thing that all fae were drawn to like moths to a flame. The land flattened out into a grassy plateau where, in the distance, he could make out a tiny smudge of white across the field. His heart bucked. He ran faster, his joints jarred with every stride, until the sacred tree began to come into focus._

_He slowed to a walk. His leant on his knees, his legs threatening to give out, as he got his first proper look at the tree. It was tiny. Its trunk stood barely six feet tall, with a plume of white blossoms fanning out over the top on young, spindly branches. Dragging in deep breaths of the air, he marvelled at the sight. He wondered if it was big enough to have spawned a Queen yet, or if that would come later, when —_

_Someone cleared their throat behind him. He startled, whirling around to see a blue-eyed fae with white hair, clothed in a white drape. "Erm... hello there," he said timidly, keeping his distance. His hands were full of fruits, freshly picked from the surrounding woods. "I, erm... I didn't know there was anyone else here. Can I... help you?"_

_Michael gawked. He tried to respond, but his eyes were welded firmly onto the luminous white wings folded at the stranger's back. They were brighter than any he'd ever seen. They seemed to almost glow in the sunlight, each feather sleek and shiny, covering the lean muscle beneath. He'd often heard elder fairies say that you could judge a Queen solely by the effect their wings had on you, if ever you were lucky enough to see them. He'd written it off as an old superstition but now, seeing a pair of truly regal wings in the flesh... He wondered if it was true. Even though the wings were small now, they would grow as he came into his full power, and Michael desperately wanted to be there as he did. He took a deep breath, and bowed as low as he could._

_"My name is Michael, your majesty," he said breathlessly. His heart skipped several beats. He’d never spoken directly to a Queen before! "It's an honour to meet you."_

_"It is?" he replied, taken aback. His feathers ruffled slightly. "Oh. Erm... likewise, I suppose. My name is Ab — "_

_"No!" Michael shrieked, standing bolt upright again. The Queen jumped, flinching back. An apple rolled off the pile of fruit in his arms. "You can't tell me that. You can't tell anyone your real name, not even the people you trust. It's very dangerous."_

_"Dangerous?" he said, wide-eyed. "Why? How do you know all this? And — And why are you here at all, anyway? This is_ my _garden, all said and done."_

_A smile twitched his lips. "It's much more than a garden, your majesty. This... This is your Queendom,” he said, gesturing around, giddy with excitement. A new realm was on the verge of being built, and here he was, right at the forefront. “People will come from all around to live here, so that you can reign over them."_

_"I beg your pardon?" he said, incredulous. "Why on earth would they do that?"_

_"You're a Queen, sire. You were born to rule," he said, fixing him with a look of intense admiration. "You'll be the most powerful of us all."_

_He swallowed thickly. "Good lord. Will I really?" he said. Michael nodded; his excitement was infectious, and the Queen's lips soon began to curl into a similar smile. "If that's the case, then... where do I begin?"_

_"You tell me. You're the Queen, after all," he said with another bow. "But for as long as you need me, I will be here to serve you, and everything you create."_


	21. Point of No Return

Aziraphale had been run off his feet with wedding plans. Crowley contributed now and then, but mostly seemed content to sit back and let him arrange what he wanted. They spent many afternoons in the study, working over the fine details, sharing smiles and the odd tipple, if the mood took them. Sometimes Crowley found himself tempted to take his fiancé by the hand across the table, usually when the light was low and the alcohol was working its magic... He held himself back. Aziraphale still wanted to go slow, at least for now. So, that in mind, Crowley decided to tread carefully. He was in the public eye now, after all. He couldn’t unleash the full force of his affections onto a Queen all at once, for reasons beyond etiquette, too. 

Aziraphale worked quietly in the study. Crowley was still in bed; it was Sunday, after all. He didn't expect anyone would visit, which made him all the more surprised when there were three steady, firm knocks on the door. He frowned. "Yes?"

The door creaked open, and Aziraphale's heart dropped. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, seeing that broad, intimidating silhouette at the door. Gabriel stepped into the office, closing the door behind him with a bang. "Hello, your majesty," he said, with a broad smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

Aziraphale swallowed hard. "G — Gabriel," he said, fiddling with his quill. "Welcome back. How's — erm — How's the head?"

"Peachy," he replied, his falsely happy expression never faltering, as he sat down in front of the desk. "I just spoke to Sandalphon. I believe congratulations are in order."

"Um, yes. Thank you," he said, looking anywhere but those cold purple eyes. "You're just in time. The wedding is in two days."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied, clapping his hands together sharply, making Aziraphale flinch. "You have my respect."

"I... I do?" he said, hesitant. That was not the response he was expecting.

Gabriel threw up his hands. "Sure. It's brave. Picking an Unseelie husband, knowing your heirs will be... you know," he said, raising his eyebrows and blowing out a long puff of air. Aziraphale scowled. 

"What about my heirs?" he said indignantly. 

"Ah, nevermind. Good luck with all that, anyway," he said, standing up and dusting off his jacket. He headed back for the door. "Tell your _fiancé_ that I said hi. I almost miss our little talks."

Gabriel left the study briskly, feeling the Queen’s unease at his back. He needed to make his presence felt again. He made for the archives, where the other dukes were waiting. It was the only place where they might talk, unheard, during the day. The vast hall sat quietly, with only the odd sniffle and turning page to accompany the low murmur of conversation that bubbled from the eaves of the room. Hardly anyone came here, apart from the archivists themselves. The dukes stood in an alcove of shelves, speaking in hushed tones. 

"You let this happen. All three of you," Gabriel hissed, jabbing a finger at them. His false politeness had quickly evaporated. "I'm out of the game for less than a month, and you knuckleheads went and handed the Queen over to the enemy?"

"What could we have done?" Michael said scornfully. "He kept the prophecy a secret until it was too late for us. No one was expecting that he'd propose."

"Even Crowley seemed surprised," Uriel said, nodding along, avoiding Gabriel's eyes. 

"I don't give a damn if he was surprised. If he gets Aziraphale pregnant then there'll be no getting rid of him without drastic measures," Gabriel said. Michael set his jaw and tried not to flinch at those implications. "No one wants a half-breed on the throne. We can't afford to drop the ball again."

"The wedding is two days away. There's no stopping it now," Uriel said, her face sour. She crossed her arms. "We all know that Aziraphale will overrule anyone who tries to object at the ceremony. It's political suicide."

"That isn't the plan," Gabriel snapped, stroking his chin thoughtfully and pacing along the shelves. There was a long pause.

"...Is there a plan?" Sandalphon asked tentatively. All eyes turned to Gabriel, who stood facing away at the end of the aisle. He sighed deeply.

"Give me time," he said, glancing over his shoulder at them. "Somehow, I will fix this, once and for all."

Crowley woke up, staring at the ceiling for a long time before he dared think it: _it’s my wedding day._ He sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked around his bedroom. It had grown familiar and comfortable over the months he'd spent here, always a place to retreat. He'd be moving into Aziraphale's room tonight. That room, this palace, this Queendom... it was about to become his home, permanently. He pressed a hand firmly over his mouth as he once again tried to digest that information. He'd left his old home last year, not knowing that he was moving out. He'd have to go back, once Azrael had given birth, to fetch his things and collect his other horses. Well... provided everything stayed on-track. There was still so much that could go wrong. He posed a risk to Aziraphale, and the whole Queendom posed a risk to him in turn. They'd rip him limb from limb if they ever found out that the serpent had married their Queen. He gulped, and swept aside the covers to get out of bed. He had a wedding to prepare for. 

He bathed first, but made it quick. His hair was longer than usual, and it would need time to dry. He put it in a half-bun when it was ready. Next, he laid out his outfit, which Aziraphale insisted he kept a complete secret from everyone. Crowley had argued long and hard with the tailor about it, but had eventually won, and secured himself the colour scheme he'd wanted. Embroidered red blossoms adorned the black fitted waistcoat, with a tie that matched the red thread. Everything else was solid black. He had to admit, planning it all had been fun, in its own way.

Regardless of how terrified he was of staying here, and how dejected he was about the proposal itself, he couldn't get away from the fact that he still loved Aziraphale. He loved him in that natural, safe, simple way that was so very hard to give up on; it seemed so harmless and, in itself, it was. It was the rest of the world which hated such pure affection. He remembered every moment they'd sat together and shared a laugh over the food, or the music, and every time he saw that bright smile his heart felt a little lighter. He wanted to believe that this marriage could work. He wanted it desperately, and perhaps that’s why he’d not really struggled, because it was such a convenient excuse to take what he’d wanted for so long, and protect him from the insidious ambition of the dukes. Maybe it would work, but he'd been wrong so many times already... 

Aziraphale had been awake since well before dawn. He'd soaked in the bath for over an hour, manicured his nails and agonised over what perfume he would wear. He thanked the lord his outfit had been picked out in advance, or he'd be late to his own wedding trying to pick one. He looked at it, hung up on his dressing screen. The overcoat was the same shade as his everyday coat, with turned-up cuffs to show off the lace at the end of his shirtsleeves. There was a matching ruffled lace collar resting on his chest, with a very pale pink undercoat which matched his stockings. He'd agonised over the decision to wear knee-length breeches too, which showed off the stockings, until he'd decided that if he couldn't wear what he wanted at his own wedding, then when could he?* The whole thing was finished by a pair of shining heeled shoes, of a dusky pink colour, with a gleaming silver buckle. 

*And if Crowley happened to notice his calves, well, that's just a nice coincidence. 

He could hardly think straight as he watched the clock, waiting. He'd waited so long for this. The ceremony, the celebrations, and the evening at the end to wind down... He glanced at the bed with a flutter of anxiety, before sharply reminding himself that nothing would happen between him and Crowley that night. This was the beginning of their relationship. They'd have all the time in the world to grow closer, to love one another, and physical intimacy would come later. That was a relief, in all honesty. As much as he wanted children, he wasn't quite ready for the — er — for the _process_ just yet. His cheeks began to heat up. He fanned himself, mumbling under his breath about how he ought to get ahold of himself, and took a calming breath. There was no rush. When — or rather, _if,_ assuming it all worked out — the time came, he'd be able to trust Crowley to take good care of him. That was a concern for the future, though. Today was only the beginning. 

The throne room doors were wide open, pinned back by cream velvet ropes with gold tassels that matched the silken drapes adorning the ceiling and walls. Aziraphale arrived first, entering the room lined with the faces of his courtiers. Each one was dressed in an elaborate sparkling garb, all trying to out-do one another in a range of greens, blues and dark purples. No one dared wear anything even approaching white, cream or pale pink. Each noble bowed deeply as Aziraphale walked up the aisle between them, his heels clacking on the polished floor. He resisted the urge to tug at his clothes. It was unnervingly silent. He stopped just before the steps to his throne, and took a deep breath. The officiant, who stood on the first step, smiled reassuringly. Crowley would be here any moment. 

As if hearing his thoughts, the musician by the door began to pluck the strings of their Celtic harp, filling the room with a lilting, traditional tune. Aziraphale knew the words. He mouthed them in time with each note, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching from the hall: _that certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air..._ He faced forward, his heart fluttering. Crowley's shadow appeared in the doorframe. 

To Crowley, it all seemed deceptively simple. He approached the throne room, finding the familiar room adorned with pale decor and a mosaic of watching courtiers. Aziraphale stood at the foot of the steps, his back facing the door. Crowley swallowed hard, hesitating. This was it; the point of no return. In the back of his mind, he realised that he had never even considered abandoning the Queendom before the ceremony went ahead. He'd have asked himself why, if he didn't already know. The answer was stood at the end of the aisle. Glancing around, he began to walk, slightly unnerved by the many eyes following him. At least there was music. He liked this tune. He stopped by Aziraphale's shoulder, running an appreciative eye over his clothes. 

"Hm. Very flash," he commented, quietly enough that only he heard. 

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. "Ah, thank you," he replied in the same undertone. "You look very handsome as well."

The officiant cleared her throat, and the music gently faded out. Aziraphale straightened his posture. Crowley set his jaw. "This morning, we have been called to witness the marriage of our beloved Queen, Aziraphale the First, to his companion and friend, Mister Crowley, the Dullahan of Legend," she said with a broad, genuine smile. "Should anyone object to this union, it is now lawful to do so, by the grace of the Queen."

Crowley couldn't help but turn his head to look at Gabriel. He was the least subtle about it, but everyone seemed to be looking the same way out of the corner of their eye. The Duke kept his eyes trained on the officiant, without acknowledging the stares being sent his way. He said nothing. After a few beats of silence, the officiant continued.

"Then let the ceremony commence," she said cheerfully. Aziraphale let out a minute sigh of relief. He would've hated to have to undermine one of his dukes so publicly. "Your majesty, Queen Aziraphale, sovereign over the Blossom Realm... Do you wish to take this fae to be your husband?"

"I do," he said, firmly and clearly. 

"Do you swear to love, protect and provide for him as your own?" she continued. Crowley arched a brow at that particular question. 

"I do," he said, with a small side-glance at Crowley. He couldn't tell if he looked back from beneath his sunglasses. 

With a pleased nod, the officiant turned to face Crowley. "Mister Crowley, Dullahan, Omen of Death," she said, making him wince slightly. "Do you accept the vow extended by his majesty?" 

"Uh, yeah," he said uncertainly. The officiant didn't move on, and he realised what he'd forgotten. "I mean, yep, I do."

He could practically _hear_ people rolling their eyes and sharing scornful glances behind his back. Aziraphale shook his head in fond exasperation. Crowley would have started a friendly bickering match over it, if they hadn't been right in the middle of getting married. The officiant picked up where they'd left off. "And do you swear to be faithful to him, and him alone?"

"Erm, I do," he said, nodding slightly. He thought that went without saying, when you married someone. 

"And do you swear to fulfil your duty to the Queendom, as royal consort, if and when his majesty requires?" she said, finally taking a very serious turn.

 _Hang on, how come I have to make more than one vow and he doesn't?_ he wondered, taken aback slightly. "I do," he said. It hit him a moment later what he'd just agreed to. He shuddered slightly, glad that Aziraphale wanted to take things steady before Crowley was expected to _fulfil his duty._ He reminded himself that these were standardised vows for royal marriages, as Aziraphale had explained to him, hammered out at a council of realms eons ago and agreed upon ever since; it was up to the individual couple how strictly they interpreted the vows. 

The officiant beckoned Michael over, who had been holding a small, velvet-lined box in the front row of the crowd. He stepped up, bowing, and opened the lid. Aziraphale's heart fluttered as he picked up the first ring, a bulky gold band emblazoned with his royal seal, and took Crowley's hand gently. He stretched out his fingers, letting him slide the ring into place. Crowley's breath hitched a little, feeling the unfamiliar coolness on his skin. A smile twitched at his lips. It was a special moment, one he’d never even dared to dream of. Michael extended the box to him, and it took him a moment to realise what he had to do. He took the other ring, a far simpler one engraved with runes for love and trust, slipping it onto Aziraphale's waiting hand. It took him a moment to let go again, as if he was the only thing grounding him to reality. 

"Then I am delighted to pronounce you Queen and consort," she said, buzzing with excitement. She looked at Aziraphale. "You may kiss your groom."

Aziraphale turned, smiling skittishly at Crowley, and hesitated as nerves got the better of him. It took barely an instant, but Crowley saw it, and so did everyone else. He glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder, spotting the smug smile curling Gabriel's mouth. Crowley twitched. _Fuck it,_ he thought. _I only get one shot at this..._

He swept Aziraphale into his arms and dipped him low as he crashed their lips together. He kissed him with every ounce of repressed love he’d felt since he’d first stumbled into this world. The Queen let out a muffled cry, unwittingly letting Crowley’s tongue slip between his lips, before his mind caught up and he began to kiss back just as fiercely. It startled the court out of their silence. They gasped, muttering even as Crowley pulled him back upright — their mouths still locked together — and drew back with a deep gulp of air only when they were vertical again.

 _Well, that was fun,_ Crowley thought with a cheeky grin. It had left Aziraphale breathless and flushed, clinging white-knuckled to his blazer with a stunned smile. Ceremonial wedding kisses were usually just a chaste peck on the lips for the sake of public decorum... Clearly, his new husband had other ideas. There was an awkward silence. Neither newlywed quite knew how long that had gone on for... Some time, judging by the number of blushing nobles who were now no longer so smug about their front-row seats.

The officiant cleared her throat, sending Crowley an amused glance as he wiped his mouth. "Now that's over, if the court would please vacate the throne room to prepare for the public celebration this afternoon," she said. With a few mumbled congratulations and the shuffling of feet, the courtiers began to bow to the newlyweds as they filtered out of the room. Aziraphale's blush had barely died down by the time they were left alone in the throne room. 

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. "That kiss, uh... was that a bit much?" he asked with a wince. 

"Rather dramatically, yes. Good show," he said, patting his lapels, with a helplessly giddy smile. Crowley fondly rolled his eyes. "There are still a few more ceremonial bits and bobs to do now we're alone, if you don't mind."

He leaned back slightly. "Like...?"

Aziraphale gently took his arm, and led him up the steps to the throne. "It's just a symbolic little thing, really," he said, hesitantly taking his wrist, and guiding his hand to the arm of the throne. Crowley's hand landed on the smooth wood with a small spark of energy which ran all the way up into his own heart. "There. All done."

He withdrew his hand, and Crowley couldn't help but let his fingers linger on the throne for an instant before he pulled away, too. "Does that mean I'm allowed to touch it now?" he asked dryly.

"Yes. You still can't sit in it though, not unless you become king," he said, adjusting the ruffles on his neck. Crowley grimaced slightly. He didn't know a thing about ruling... He hoped his coronation wouldn't come for a while yet. "Now, the public celebration this afternoon, um... are you at all familiar?"

He shook his head, leaning on the throne just because he could. "Nope."

"Ah, well — in that case, erm — just follow my lead," he said haltingly. "Do as I do, and you will be just tickety-boo, I'm sure."

At precisely midday, the palace doors swung open, and the roar of the assembled crowds flooded the air. Crowley squinted, startled by the brightness even with his sunglasses. He tried not to cringe under the thousands of pairs of eyes, all on them. It wasn't that he was unused to being seen, he was just unused to being known. Everyone here knew his name and face and demeanour... He wasn't just an ominous silhouette on the horizon, or the foreboding hoof beats in the distance bringing a murder of crows to flock on a smouldering battlefield. He stood silently by Aziraphale's side as they stepped into the sun, pausing at the top of the stairs to address the people — their people — where everyone could see. 

Aziraphale raised his hand, and the cacophony petered out. "Good afternoon, one and all. It is wonderful to see you all together this way, to celebrate the day we've waited for for six millennia now, give or take a smidge either side," he said, his voice amplified tenfold to reach every waiting ear in the crowd. "I simply couldn't be happier to share this with you. As I see it, we are standing at the threshold of a new golden age, one strengthened by love, and by comradeship with our Unseelie fellowfae."

There was a low, thoughtful murmur through the crowd. They weren't completely sure about that, but they were still listening. Crowley fidgeted a little. _No pressure, then,_ he thought to himself. _Just got to bring about a whole new era of peace and prosperity. Piece of cake. Poisoned cake. Full of razorblades. On fire._

Aziraphale took a deep, fortifying breath and kept going. "So, here we are, on the very first day of the rest of our lives... and long, happy lives they shall be, too!" he said with a beaming smile. Crowley began to share it; he hoped he was right. In that moment, caught in his boundless optimism, he forgot the prophecy which chilled him to his core, and felt the warm contentment of his wedding day. It was hard not to be happy, at his side, watching him do what he did best. "Now, enough of me. Let the celebrations begin!"

The silence shattered, replaced with a rousing chorus of _Long Live The Queen!_ Crowley huffed as the crowd parted to let them descend the stairs, and make their way toward the grand feast table on the main street. "What, no _long live the consort?"_ he asked sardonically, leaning close to Aziraphale's ear. 

"In time, my dear. When you're king," he said, then hastily corrected himself: " _If,_ I mean. If that's what you choose."

Crowley was about to comment, when the feast table caught his attention. The two large chairs at the head of it — one a little smaller than the other — were oddly structured, with one long central panel to form the back, leaving a gap either side that ran all the way down to the seat. His internal questions were answered promptly. A ripple of magic hit him from the side, and he shaded his eyes as a blinding surge of light followed it. Blinking rapidly, he lowered his hand as it faded. His jaw dropped. 

Half-unfurled from his back, Aziraphale's wings arched high over Crowley's head, shimmering silver-white in the sun. There wasn't a feather out of place. Aziraphale folded them at his back effortlessly; Crowley would've thought it would be more strenuous, moving wings so enormous. They were _huge._ He didn’t even know it was possible for wings to grow so big. He gulped. _Oh, I've gone and done it now, haven't I? Married a Queen... a real, proper Queen..._ he thought, feeling very small all of a sudden. He often forgot just how ancient he was, just how strong... He hid it well, behind his polite smile and cute little bow-tie. Seemingly blind to his awestruck face, Aziraphale nudged his arm. Crowley startled as he realised what he meant. 

He coughed and unfurled his own wings, which he'd thought were a respectable size until he'd seen what Aziraphale was packing. They were jet black and downy soft on the undersides, with a blueish sheen on his feathers. He crossed his arms, pressing his wings as tightly closed as he could. He felt a bit ridiculous, showing his off next to Aziraphale’s. He glanced at him, and finally noticed the way he was staring. 

"What?" he said sharply. 

Aziraphale shook himself, and took his seat. "Nothing," he said, as if he hadn't been ogling those lovely dark wings. They were remarkably well-groomed, and he was tempted to touch them, though such things weren’t appropriate in public. Crowley sat beside him in the smaller chair, and the festivities whipped up around them. 

Jaunty music provided a rhythm to the group dances nearby the table, and people ran between the dancers tossing flower petals into the air. They eddied in the breeze, carried overhead to sweep past Aziraphale and Crowley in a fluttering shower of colour. A red petal landed on the tip of Crowley's nose and balanced there for a moment, much to Aziraphale's amusement. He batted it away with a huff, and rolled his eyes. Typical. Wreaths of wild grasses and willow adorned most doorways, and children were exchanging flower crowns and daisy-chains again. Crowley sort of wanted one. He refused to say so, though. Aziraphale tapped out the beat of the music on the table, watching the dance and remembering that magical day at the market, when loving Crowley openly had seemed such a cruel impossibility. If he wasn't so sure she was dead, he'd have found Agnes Nutter again just to give her the tightest hug he could muster. She might hit him for it, but it would've been worth it.

The food was served not long afterward. Plate after giant plate of meats, fish, fruits, and vegetables, each one humming with spices and singing with herbs, poured out from the palace kitchens. Petronius had outdone himself. The table was laden to breaking point with scores of whole roasted hogs, haunches of venison and cornucopias overflowing with the wild harvest from the woods. Crowley swiped his tongue around his mouth, feeling a pang of hunger. It was time for him to feed again, properly this time, and his appetite couldn't have surged at a better time. 

Aziraphale picked from the dishes on offer carefully, politely asking for his nearby courtiers to pass him the dishes he wanted most. He was so wrapped up in it that he didn't notice what Crowley was doing until he looked across and did a double-take. "Good lord," he blurted out, catching his attention. "I've never seen you eat so much."

Crowley looked down at his plate, piled high with everything he could get his hands on. He shrugged. "Well, you know. Special occasion," he said, grabbing his cutlery and digging into the pile from the top. Given half a chance, he'd have unhinged his jaw and swallowed the lot in one, but it wasn't good table-manners. 

Aziraphale watched in abject fascination as Crowley gulped down mouthful after mouthful, barely stopping to chew. "Crowley, dear, I think you should perhaps slow down just a bit," he said.

He paused, and gave a grunt of acknowledgement. He swallowed the lump of food in his mouth. "M'hungry."

"Yes, but no one's going to try taking it off you," he said. "Pace yourself, or you’ll get indigestion."

He grumbled, but listened. People would probably start to stare if he kept wolfing down his food like that, anyway. At least Gabriel wasn't here, probably still off sulking in a dark corner somewhere. His seat beside Michael was empty. _Suits me,_ thought Crowley as he painstakingly cut his steak into chunks. His snake-brain writhed with impatience, cajoling him, tempting him to just swallow it, to hell with the consequences. He resisted, and began to eat it piece by piece. He even chewed. The afternoon wore on, and Crowley cleared his plate, taking pauses now and then to talk to Aziraphale. They reminisced on the time they'd spent together, and shared a knowing glance when a familiar festival-dance tune began to play. Recalling what it felt like to twirl Aziraphale in his arms, Crowley absent-mindedly began to refill his plate. 

"You're rather fond of eating meat, I see," Aziraphale commented, sipping his wine. It was true; his plate was crowded with game. "But then, you are a carnivore at heart, I suppose."

Crowley choked on his food. Spluttering and patting his chest to clear it, he gawked at Aziraphale. "H — How did you know that I'm a carni— ?" he said, hesitating. He'd been so sure that Aziraphale had no idea of his true nature. He'd never have married him if he knew, surely! But how could he possibly know that Crowley was carnivorous if he didn't? 

He looked down shyly at his hands, twisting his new wedding ring around his finger. "Well... all Unseelie fae have some animal characteristics, don't they? I know that much," he said, and Crowley nodded slowly, his heart dropping by the second. "For a while I thought yours might be from a horse, though, er, I daren’t imagine where you’d be hiding it. I wasn't sure if it would be rude to ask.”

“What did you imagine I was hiding, sorry?” he said, with a suspicious squint.

Aziraphale set down his wine glass a bit too hard. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said, clearing his throat loudly, and moved swiftly on. “But then, of course! I puzzled it all out when I saw your eyes."

Crowley blanched, brought sharply back down to earth. "A — Aziraphale, listen, I can expl — "

He shook his head with a light chuckle. "No need, Crowley. It's quite all right," he said. Crowley's brow furrowed. How was he so calm? Why didn’t he mention it until now? He knew the danger he posed to the realm, so why wasn't he frightened? "I should've known you were part-cat the moment you showed such a penchant for making a nuisance of yourself with all those practical jokes."

Oh.

Crowley's jaw worked up and down, unable to find the words to respond. He swallowed hard. "Heh. Practical jokes, yeah... Love a good joke, me," he said, taking a long, deep draught of his wine to steady himself. Aziraphale knew where to look, just not what it meant. He made a mental note to keep his glasses on in public, in case an onlooker decided to think a bit harder about his eyes. The wine burned down his throat, surprising him. He frowned at the half-empty cup. That was very strong wine. The alcohol acted quickly, dulling his mind, telling him it was nothing to worry about. With a shrug, he put it down, and went back to eating. 

He hadn't noticed that Gabriel had returned to the table, refilling that glass from a different bottle as he’d passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT:  
> Another awesome artist has pitched in with some art for this fic!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928741  
> Show them some love, it was a wonderful surprise and I’m so overwhelmed by the kindness that’s come from this fic 
> 
> Also, Sadlynojellybeans on tumblr did another art piece for this fic too a while back and I am SO sorry it’s taken me this long to put a link to it in the fic  
> https://sadlynojellybeans.tumblr.com/post/619339704256593920/crowley-glanced-over-his-shoulder-again-he-was
> 
> Aren’t they all beautiful?? And amazing??? And I love them!!!!!! Thank you!!!


	22. Appetite

Crowley woke up with a pounding headache. He groaned, and buried his face deeper into the pillow. It smelt familiar. There was a hint of cologne, and something else... What had even happened the night before? Hangovers this bad were rare even for him. He cracked his eyes open tentatively, letting the world come into focus until he saw his hand resting beside his head, with a gold ring on his finger. 

_Oh yeah,_ he thought dumbly. _That._ Braving the pain, he pushed himself into a sitting position, finding himself still fully dressed in his wedding clothes. He looked around, his mind taking a moment to catch up with his surroundings. His heart skipped a beat when he realised he was lying in Aziraphale's bed. 

The bathroom door clicked open, and Aziraphale came back into the room, buttoning up his waistcoat. "Ah, you're awake," he said softly, taking in the bags beneath Crowley's eyes and the slump in his shoulders. 

"Mmh, yeah... er, what happened, after the feast yesterday?" he asked, his voice gruff. 

Aziraphale ummed and ahhed for a moment. "Well... it was getting on a bit in the day, and wine was flowing, as it so often does at these things... I didn't think you'd had that much, but you were, um, somewhat squiffy," he said, irking Crowley slightly, but he was too hungover to bemoan his wording. "I was a little worse for wear myself, but I had the wherewithal to get you inside before too many people noticed."

"And... and we didn't... do anything? After, I mean," he said hesitantly. 

"Heavens, no," he said, averting his eyes, embarrassed. "No offence meant dear but, quite frankly, in the state you were in, I don't think you had the coordination for anything... athletic, so to speak. Which is besides the point, of course. It’s too soon to be discussing that sort of thing."

He grunted, nodding and rubbing his eyes. That was a relief. "Mm, course," he said. "Sorry about last night, anyway. Think someone must've spiked my drink."

He hummed pensively. "It had occurred to me," he said sympathetically. "I... I had hoped that no one would be so disgruntled that they’d try to humiliate you like that. I’d start asking around, but it could have been anyone in the whole city.”

"I’ll just have to watch my drink next time," he mumbled, half-asleep, resting on his fist. Being bullied and stabbed in the back was starting to become commonplace for him now; he was slightly desensitised. The more awake he felt, the more he noticed the gnawing emptiness in his gut. His stomach growled. Confused, he lifted his head and asked: "Angel, did I throw up what I ate last night?"

"Thankfully not," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Why?"

"Nothing, just... hungry," he said, baffled. He'd eaten at least four stacks of meat the night before, so he shouldn't even be thinking of feeding again for months. The ravenous hunger in his belly couldn't be mistaken, though. He was even hungrier this morning than he was before, as if the feast had only whetted his appetite. Maybe he'd thrown up when Aziraphale hadn't seen. He hoped so. If not, it could only mean one thing, and it was the last thing he needed right now...

Sandalphon poured the tea. He sat opposite Gabriel, who was in deep thought. He'd arrived first thing, before they'd have to meet the court for the first day of Aziraphale's so-called golden age. The fake joy they'd shown during the wedding had exhausted them both, leaving them jaded and tired.

"Crowley could hardly walk yesterday," Sandalphon said, in an attempt to pull him from his irritated brooding. "The plan worked. There was no way they could have consummated the marriage with him in that state."

Gabriel curled his lip, glaring at him. "One night's delay is nothing. Didn’t you see the way he kissed him? Spiking his drink was a band-aid solution... Our next plan has to be foolproof, and it has to be quick," he said harshly. "I won't stand to see one of his brats on the throne."

"Perhaps he'll sabotage himself," he said. "Aziraphale will see, eventually, that he's not fit to rule."

"Not a chance I can afford to take, Sandalphon," he replied. "I will be watching him like a hawk."

A large breakfast and a whole jug of water helped to assuage both Crowley's hangover and his restless appetite. He hoped it would stay that way. To his surprise, Aziraphale didn't seem in a rush to go to court. "I've arranged for them to run themselves for the day," he explained, delicately dabbing away the jam at the edge of his mouth. "If it's all right with you, I have a little surprise planned."

"What kind of surprise?" he said.

"I've arranged a sitting with the court painter. She's new, and came up very highly recommended by several courtiers," he said excitedly. "I don't have many paintings yet, since they're usually for commemorating important things."

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Angel, I look like I've been dragged backwards through a hedge. Not a good look for a painting," he said, shaking his head. 

"Oh don't get your trousers in a twist. She'll just... adjust the image slightly," he said, sipping his tea. 

"She'll lie."

"It's called _artistic licence_ , dear," he said haughtily. 

"Right. Lying," he surmised, rolling his shoulders. "When's this appointment then?"

He wasn't expecting the answer to be 'now'. He was quickly ushered out of the room and into the study, where the desk had been cleared and the window behind it cleaned to within an inch of its life. The realm sprawling out behind the glass was layered with the expanse of gardens, evergreen forests, and the rugged river-cut moorland beyond, until the landscape faded into the foggy, distant horizon. Aziraphale's obtrusive high-backed chair had been replaced with two smaller ones that wouldn't be visible in the painting. As the painter saw them, Aziraphale sat on the left, and Crowley on the right. He collapsed into his chair with a deep sigh. 

Aziraphale batted his arm. "Sit straight, Crowley," he said chidingly. 

Rolling his eyes, he dragged himself upright. The painter — a surprisingly young girl, who was barely pushing 20 — stifled a giggle, and picked up a stick of graphite to begin sketching the background. It was only then when Crowley noticed the size of the canvas she had. "Bloody hell, angel, how long is this going to take?" 

"I took the whole day off for a reason, dear," he said. He opened the drawer to his right, taking out a familiar green-bound book that Crowley loathed the sight of: The Prophecies of Agnes Nutter... He placed it on the desk between them, and continued digging in the drawer. 

"What do we need this for?" Crowley asked distastefully, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. 

"Symbolism. These types of paintings are meant to be copied and shared, to inspire the people and show them something to... well, to believe in, I suppose. They do say a picture says a thousand words," he said, setting a scroll down beside the book. He briefly got up, heading across the room to fetch an apple from the fruit bowl by the door. "The book of prophecy represents the future, of course."

He sat back down, holding the scroll of parchment in his left hand. "Here, hold this," he said, handing the apple to Crowley. He nodded at the window behind them. "And there's the Queendom behind us, blooming in all its wonderful diversity."

"Let me guess, the scroll is your endless _regal wisdom,"_ he said sarcastically, putting on a nasal voice to labour the point. The painter gave a snort of laughter, which she tried to hide behind a cough. Aziraphale shot her a stern glance. She quickly ducked behind the canvas. 

"Actually, yes," he huffed, pouting. He rested his hand on the corner of the book, and squared his shoulders. Crowley combed his fingers briefly through his hair, tucking it behind his pointed ears, and did the same. He glanced down at the item which had been thrust into his hand. 

"What's the apple all about?" he said idly, examining it with a detached sort of interest. 

Aziraphale's eyes widened slightly as he stared dead ahead, avoiding his gaze. "Erm. It's a symbol of — of, um — fruitfulness. I suppose you'd say. In the most literal sense," he stammered. Crowley stared at him for a long moment. 

"You mean fertility, don't you?" he said flatly. 

He ducked his head, his cheeks heating up. "Well, yes," he said sheepishly. "I don't mean to be presumptuous, Crowley, it's just — that's the nature of being a consort, as far as most people are concerned.”

He scoffed. "Yeah, whatever. I'll hold the apple, it's fine," he said. "Just so long as you don't get carried away with this _fertility_ lark."

"Not anytime soon, certainly," he said, relieved. The painter had been quietly eavesdropping since the start of their bickering match, but that made her jaw drop. What did he mean, not anytime soon? They'd gone thousands of precarious years without an heir! Did he really plan to just keep recklessly ploughing on, even when he already had a consort prepared? The realm would never be stable until the line was secure; her Uncle Gabriel said so. 

Oblivious to her worries, Aziraphale and Crowley tried to sit as still as they could as she worked. Well, tried is a kind way of putting it. Aziraphale was fidgety by nature, and Crowley was easily bored. He huffed, glancing around. 

"Stay still, dear," Aziraphale said, as if he hadn't been minutely adjusting his position every minute for the last hour. 

Crowley rolled his shoulders and groaned. "It's been ages. Isn't it done yet?"

"It's been an hour and a half. Of course not," he said, eyes front and centre. 

"Isn't there such a thing as a break in this realm?" he said. 

"Of course. We'll break for lunch later," he said, angling his eyes to look at the grandfather clock. "In about... two and a half hours."

Crowley gritted his teeth, and fought the urge to slump forward onto the table in defeat. The mention of lunch sparked a new wave hunger inside him, which he was beginning to suspect wasn't a coincidence. That was not good. Time ticked by and, beat by painful beat, Crowley's appetite grew. Meat-eater or not, the apple he was holding began to look very tempting. It might take the edge off, just a bit... He licked his lips. Could he sneak a bite without anyone noticing? It wouldn't do any harm, surely. It wouldn't make a difference if he only ate the half the painter couldn't see. Tentatively, he began to raise it to his mouth, shooting glances at Aziraphale to see if he was looking. He sank his teeth into the flesh, and the sound caught his attention immediately.

"Crowley, honestly. Breakfast wasn't that long ago," he said, looking at his husband who had been caught red-fanged. "You can't be hungry already."

He finished the bite and swallowed before Aziraphale could stop him. It tasted wooden and unsatisfying compared to meat, but at least it was something. "I never eat. I've got a lot of catching up to do," he said defensively. His stomach growled audibly, and he noticed Aziraphale's face soften a little with sympathy. 

"Hmm... I suppose a snack break would rather hit the spot, I must say," he admitted. He looked at the painter. "Just a short interval, my dear, and we'll be right back." 

She nodded, set down her brushes, and bowed low before she left the room. She wiped her hands on her apron, smearing paint, as she hurried through the halls. Her mind buzzed with worry. She wasn't inclined to politics much, but she'd listened to Uncle Gabriel when he visited, and he seemed to know it all. If she had a problem, she could go to him. He'd always told her so. He could make it go away, no matter what it was. The problem she'd overheard in the study was a little more than her own faux-pas of the past, but she hoped that her uncle could do something, if he at least knew. 

She ran into him on his way out of the conference room. He jumped, and stepped back from her when he saw the damp paint on her apron. "Raziel," he said, taking her aside, out of view of the other courtiers filtering out of the room. "What is it? I thought you were working today."

"I am. The Queen and his consort have just taken a short recess, but..." she said, dropping her voice low. "I heard something, and I need to tell you."

He glanced over his shoulder. No one was paying him much attention. "What is it?"

"The Queen said he didn't want children anytime soon," she whispered, staring up at him with fearful eyes. "His consort didn't even argue. That's bad, isn't it? You've always said that a realm without heirs is weak."

Gabriel's eyes widened. He clapped a hand on Raziel's shoulder. "Honey, I am so glad you told me," he said, trying to smother his excitement. This was perfect. He'd feared being forced to do something stupid and reckless to prevent Crowley from consolidating his position with a pregnancy, but there was no need. If no baby was imminent, then he had time. He could devise a fool-proof plot, and swoop in afterward to claim the spoils. He just needed to figure out what. 

"Yeah? So you'll talk to the Queen?" she said.

"I'll do my best, Razzie. But until I figure this out... let's keep this between us, okay?" he said, pinching her cheek briefly. She winced, but nodded, relieved that the matter was in good hands. "Good girl. Now go on, before anyone sees you. I have work to do."

They ended up in the drawing room, with a spread of cured meats, cheese and fruit. Aziraphale made sure to ask for extra meat. He'd sworn to provide for his husband, after all, so he needed to make a note of his specific needs, such as they were. It was his duty. He was eager to give Crowley something back, something in return for the love he’d brought into Aziraphale’s life. Crowley barely took a breath before digging into the small feast on offer, going straight for the meat platter. Aziraphale had briefly wondered if he might like some fish, or if that would be stereotyping... 

Eventually, Crowley slowed down, his stomach settled by the plateful of food. It wasn't his usual fare, but it did the job. He threw himself back against the sofa with a satisfied groan, and wriggled slightly until he was comfortable. He could've used a nap, to be honest. He glanced across to Aziraphale, who was watching him while nibbling on a square of cheese. 

"What?" Crowley asked, seeing a pensive wrinkle in his brow. 

It pulled Aziraphale from his thoughts. "Nothing. I... well, I suppose I was just, um. Reminiscing," he said, popping the cheese into his mouth. "The last time we were in here together, we..."

He trailed off, and Crowley dredged is memory of the last few months. The day they'd spent in here, belittling spring gifts and napping on the sofa, leapt to mind after a moment. He cringed; the memory stung, laced with the pain of the argument that had followed. "I remember."

"Perhaps I shouldn't bring it up," he said, glancing down at his hands. "But it crossed my mind that — um — you deserve to know, really... I did... that is to say, I didn't _dislike_ — no, that's not right. That's not what I mean. Oh dear..."

He was getting flustered and embarrassed; in an attempt to calm him down, Crowley tried to wave him off. "S'alright. You don't have to say anything," he said, flicking his wrist dismissively. 

"No, I do," he insisted, sitting up properly and facing him. His determination arrested Crowley's attention immediately, like a rabbit who'd just spotted a snake coiled in the grass. "I enjoyed that day. There. I've said it, now."

Crowley vividly remembered him laying on his chest, asleep, their hands entwined... "All of it?" he rasped, hesitant. He'd feared that Aziraphale didn’t hold any real affection toward him even after he proposed, wondering if he'd been driven only by those damned prophecies, but... but what if...?

Aziraphale swiped his tongue nervously over his lips, and shuffled a little closer. "Yes," he replied quietly. He came closer still. Crowley's breath caught, and all of a sudden he was there beside him, pressed flush against his side. It was instinct that made Crowley wrap his arm around him in return, and when his brain caught up a moment later, it felt too good to make him pull away.

Aziraphale's heart fluttered the instant he felt Crowley reciprocate the affection. He pressed closer, taking shallow breaths that drew in his cologne and all those new subtle scents that he'd never had the peace of mind to notice. He leant down, and experimentally rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, reliving the gentle rise and fall of his chest from all those weeks ago. The nervous tension pent up in his shoulders dispersed immediately. This was... it was... beyond words. Indescribable. _Ineffable,_ even. How had he denied himself — and Crowley — this calm, gentle affection for so long? In the name of what? Etiquette? He felt like a fool, but a very lucky fool, at that. 

Crowley held him. The contact had swept every coherent thought out of his mind, leaving behind the tactile sensations that seemed like the most important things in the world. Aziraphale's comforting weight resting on him, trusting him; the soft cloth of his shirt where Crowley's hand rested around his waist; and the heartbeat he could feel, metronomic and relaxed, that his serpent's hearing couldn't help but pick out. Hesitantly, he turned his head, looking at the soft blond curls standing out against his dark clothes. Unable to help himself, he leant down, and pressed a soft kiss against the crown of his head. It lasted barely a moment, but he felt the shy smile that Aziraphale tried to hide in his chest afterward, and grinned. 

They eventually returned to the study, reluctantly disentangling themselves when the clock began to chime the hour. The bashful smile Aziraphale wore as he straightened out his waistcoat brought a fluttering sensation to Crowley's gut. He offered his arm, which he gladly took as they went back to finish the painting. 

They sat for another two hours before Aziraphale asked if Crowley still fancied lunch, to which the answer was an emphatic yes. He was delighted. It was roasted pigeon for lunch, with fresh bread and a chicory salad. Crowley didn't care much for the leaves, but he picked out the bits of boiled egg he could find and swallowed them without chewing. It took all his composure to keep using a knife and fork instead of his hands. 

"Did you just swallow a bone, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, happening to look over at an inopportune moment. 

He gulped hard. "Um... dunno, did I?" he said, knowing full well he had. "Must've been a small one. S'only a pigeon."

Aziraphale tutted. "Be more careful, for heaven's sake. I’d be devastated if you choked yourself to death," he said sternly. "Eat slower. Savour the taste on your palette."

He stared. "I'm hungry, though."

"That doesn't mean you can't relish good food," he said, gesturing with his fork. "I know you favour meat, but do try the chicory. It marries wonderfully with the pigeon."

Steeling himself, he speared a leaf and tore off a lump of meat. They were good together, he had to admit, but it's not what his body wanted. There was a hissing, writhing hunger in his gut, and he needed to sate it. These smaller meals were keeping it at bay, but only for a few hours at a time. He needed more. He needed something bigger, something raw, something fresh... He wanted to hunt. It just wasn't worth taking the risk, not here. The best game was all in the southern forests, where everybody went to hunt and gather food. What if someone spotted him? It took him a long while to swallow his prey, and he'd be vulnerable while he did.

Besides... after this morning, cuddling on the sofa with Aziraphale, he felt a new surge of terror at the thought of his true nature being discovered. He'd lose everything. He'd had a taste of his love — genuine and unafraid — and he could feel himself getting hooked on it already. He couldn't give that up. He had to keep Aziraphale to himself, keep him close, keep him safe... He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off those kinds of thoughts. His animal self came with a few extra territorial instincts, and the lines between his human and snake form always started to blur at times like this. He was quite certain by now that the spike in his appetite wasn't just because he hadn't eaten in months; his serpent-form was preparing for a growth spurt, and there was no telling how much more food it would demand before it was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess what Good Omens-related art piece their painting was based on?


	23. Green Autumn

Allegedly, Autumn had begun. So much had happened that summer that it felt bizarre, to have no definite end-point. Even Aziraphale felt struck by the strange continuity, for the first time in years, as the green leaves swayed in the wind without a hint of orange or yellow. He strolled through the gardens, breathing in the air, thinking of the tail end of that glorious summer. The memory of his wedding day seemed dreamlike... Had it even happened? He glanced at his hand, seeing the ring shining in the sun, and sighed contentedly. It really had. 

The first few nights in bed together had been awkward. Aziraphale went behind his dressing screen to change his clothes and, unbeknownst to him, his silhouette had drawn Crowley's eye more than once. It reminded him of when he’d accidentally seen him by the waterfall, bare and perfectly at ease, only now it was tantalisingly more familiar. Aziraphale knew he was there, for a start. That made it far less shameful. Still, he tried not to ogle that soft outline on the divider too much, for fear his imagination might start running away with him.

Neither one of them had found it easy to sleep in the same bed, at first. Aziraphale had even gone so far as to offer to grow another room adjoined to his own, if sharing a bed was too much, or even if he'd just prefer to have a private space to call his own. Crowley refused. It seemed like a lot of effort over nothing. It was sweet of him to offer all the same; he seemed perpetually anxious about crossing some unspoken boundary of Crowley’s. The first night they spent in bed sober, both of them kept stringently to their half of the mattress. They fell asleep late, after talking in hushed voices until the moon climbed high in the sky and they’d both subconsciously reassured themselves that they were still in safe company. The next few nights had followed a similar pattern. Aziraphale had begun to enjoy it; the steady rhythm of Crowley’s breathing, the extra warmth under the sheets, the simple pleasure of not spending his nights alone. 

As he walked the garden path, Aziraphale wondered if there was a way he could ask Crowley whether he wanted to be closer... That day in the drawing room kept revisiting him. He wanted that again; that closeness, that love. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, standing beneath his stone fountain, soothed by the rushing of the water. He stubbornly refused to look at the stone snake in the basin. He was nervous of frightening Crowley off in these early stages of their relationship, when they were were still finding where they stood. Would it be too demanding, if he asked...? 

"Hey Aziraphale!" someone called. He gave a start, and looked up. 

"Good morning, Adam," he said as they boy approached. "My, it's been a while, hasn't it?"

"I'll say. Don'tcha have time for us anymore, now you're married?" he said, half-teasing, half-indignant. 

He chuckled. "Crowley doesn't occupy all my time, you know," he said. "I've been busy. I've had so many letters recently, I can't tell you! Other Queens are very eager to get in my good books all of a sudden, it seems."

"Frightened of Crowley, I expect," he said with a shrug, jumping up to sit on the fountain's rim. Aziraphale gave a vague hum of agreement. "I saw him the other day, visiting Azrael. He looked properly wound up for some reason."

"Hm... this was around noon, I imagine?" he said, and was met with a nod. "He'll have been hungry. He's had the most bizarre change in appetite this last week. He never stops eating, it seems."

Adam huffed. "Mum'll be pleased. She worried he didn’t eat enough," he said, swinging his legs. 

"Yes, that’s all well and good, but I'm starting to get worried," he said, thinking of the day before. Crowley had been doubled over in hunger that morning, in agony, and had eaten six helpings of breakfast. Whatever was happening, it was only getting worse. "He absolutely refuses to see Anathema. He's being terribly foolhardy. There's obviously something wrong, wouldn't you say?" 

The young boy thought over the issue for a moment. "Maybe he's got worms."

"Worms?" he echoed shrilly. 

"Yeah. Wensleydale told me about them once. They get in your belly and eat all your food, so you're hungry all the time," he said with the utmost surety that was exactly how it worked. It didn't soothe the Queen's worries at all, though. "Happens if you eat dirt. Brian had 'em once."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "I don't think Crowley has eaten any dirt."

"I saw him faceplant a flowerbed while he was drunk at your wedding party," he said helpfully. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again. It made an unfortunate modicum of sense. He winced. At least they weren't contagious... Still, it meant that Crowley had to see a nurse as soon as possible. "In that case, I'll have to have a word with him..."

Crowley could no longer wait for mealtimes. He'd started hiding strips of dried meat in his pockets two days ago, swallowing them when he thought no one was looking. It was the only way he could sit through court sessions without chewing his own arm off. In his free time, he'd taken to prowling the city in search of a quick meal. Taverns and cafes near the gatehouses were a good bet. They were accustomed to serving guards who ran a tight schedule, and so long as Crowley wore a hood and kept his head down, no one made a fuss. It was never enough. Within an hour of his last feed, he was always hungry again. There would soon come a time where his body was digesting food so quickly that he'd never feel full. He hated growth spurts. They usually didn't take so long to prepare for, though... This could be his biggest one yet. He grumbled, rubbing his temples and trying to ignore the stares he got as he walked. He was already thirty feet long, how much bigger could he get? 

He passed a butcher's shop on his way to a favoured tavern of his. He set his jaw tightly shut, eyeing the window, catching a glimpse of the carcasses hanging inside the cold room as the butcher went inside. He'd love to get his jaws around one of those. Shaking his head, he walked faster, trying to put it out of his head. 

After eating at three different places and tipping generously at each, he hurried back to the palace. He'd taken longer than he'd planned. These days, he loathed leaving Aziraphale alone. The deeper he got into this odd, ravenous cycle, the harder it became to keep his territorial nature at bay. When he lived alone with only one neighbour and not much to protect, it wasn't such an issue. Now, surrounded by people who he knew for a fact wanted to take his husband away from him... well, suffice to say that secretly being a snake just got a lot harder. He'd come within half an inch of biting Sandalphon yesterday. Luckily, Aziraphale had stepped unknowingly into harm's way, and diffused the whole situation. Crowley would never hurt him. He was the very thing he wanted to defend so fiercely; Sandalphon had been giving him a lecherous stare when his back was turned, and it made Crowley's cold blood boil. After that episode, he knew he had to get a grip. He couldn't afford to make a stupid mistake just because of some petty sense of possessiveness. He had to trust Aziraphale to look after himself. He was more than capable. 

He found Aziraphale in the library, reshelving some books. It was menial work for royalty, but he found it relaxing. Crowley approached casually, stomping on the urge to wrap his arms around him from behind and suggest that they find somewhere more private to spend the afternoon. 

"Hey, angel," he said. 

"Hello, dear. Did you enjoy your stroll?" he said, stretching up on his tip-toes to reach a taller shelf. He could only just manage to rest the corner of the book on it. 

"It was alright," he said, taking the book from him and sliding it into place himself. 

"Oh. Thank you," he said, pleasantly surprised. He went back to shelving books lower down. "How's the appetite?"

He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. "It's... there," he said. 

Aziraphale turned to him with a slightly pout. "Would you _please_ see a nurse?" he said in exasperation. "This is very out of the ordinary for you."

"I'm fine, angel," he said stubbornly. 

"But what if you're not?" he fretted. He took a step closer. "I spoke to Adam earlier, and he even suggested that... that you could, um... be suffering from a sort of parasitic infestation."

Crowley spluttered, drawing himself up indignantly. "Para — ? Me? P — ? I don't have parasites!" he said, his face scrunched up in offence. "And we're taking medical advice from eleven year olds now, are we?"

Aziraphale scowled. "Scoff all you like, but I shan't rest until you see a nurse," he said, turning back to the shelf. 

"Yeah, well, I'm not going," he said, crossing his arms. The last thing he needed was for the sharp-witted Anathema to notice the reptilian traits starting to bleed over into his bipedal form. 

"Suit yourself then."

"Maybe I will," he said. 

"Then I'll see you at dinner, shall I?" he said haughtily, making his way down the aisle without so much as a glance back. "Do let me know when you see sense."

He left Crowley, stunned and irritated, in the aisle. His shoulders slumped. With a sigh, he made his way back to the library door, planning to refill his pockets in the kitchens. He'd become a familiar sight down there now. "Bloody royalty," he grumbled as he began to descend the stairs. 

Uriel watched Crowley intently. She was the best at passing unseen in the city; she wasn't as obtrusively rude as Sandalphon, or as public a figure as Michael or Gabriel. The few that recognised her thought nothing of her roaming the streets. She was baffled by Crowley's recent behaviour. He did little else but eat obsessively, and yet showed no signs of gaining weight. Gabriel didn’t understand either, though he tried to hide his confusion behind meditative nods and blind proclamations of _ah, I see..._ It was suspicious, they just didn't know why. 

Uriel was trailing Crowley back toward the palace after one of his gluttonous outings when someone stepped out in front of her. She faltered, and tried to push past. "Out of the way, please," she said. "Official business."

"Following the royal consort while he goes about his day?" the woman asked, blocking Uriel, who glared over her shoulder at the thin figure vanishing into the crowds. "I doubt the Queen ordered that."

"Who do you think you are?" Uriel snapped, giving up trying to get past. Crowley was gone already. 

"Mrs Young," she said, holding her head up high. "Adam's mother."

She arched a brow. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" she said. "You're the mother of a serving boy, harassing a duke. Out of my way."

"Not until you tell me why you're spying on Mister Crowley," she said, crossing her arms. "He's done nothing wrong. Are you trying to make him feel unwelcome?"

"That is none of your concern."

Deidre crossed her arms. "What about his majesty? Wouldn't he like to know?" 

Uriel bristled, looking around in case anyone overheard. She drew closer, snarling into Deidre's face. "You listen to me. This is beyond you; stay out of it," she said. "Don't forget that your son works in the palace, too. It's no place for busybodies from the city."

She wavered, taking a step back. "Did you just threaten my son?" she said, fear flashing in her eyes. 

"Your interpretations are not my responsibility," she replied, brushing past her. "But they're certainly worth remembering."

Deidre watched her go, mouth agape. Why did Aziraphale surround himself with these people? They were rude, underhand and aggressive, and far more worrying than his new Unseelie spouse. She wished people in the city would accept Crowley more readily. What more did he have to do to prove himself? He deserved to have someone in his corner, defending him, and she'd hoped to be one of those people... but what would become of her son? She remembered the cold, calculating look in Uriel's eyes, and she knew she wouldn't think twice about hurting Adam to silence her. She paled at the thought of taking that risk. Besides, Uriel hadn't actually tried to hurt Crowley. She'd only followed him, and he had nothing especially to hide. Deidre decided to back down, for Adam's sake, and trust that Crowley would defend himself. 

Gabriel noticed that Aziraphale and Crowley weren't talking much at dinner. Crowley ate silently, swallowing mouthfuls of food without even taking a breath in-between. Aziraphale chewed his food slowly, glancing occasionally over to his husband with a hint of annoyance. He exchanged a few taut words with the courtier to his left. Other than that, he didn't speak. Gabriel hid a smile in his wine glass, overcome with the urge to laugh. Could it be, the relationship would just fail on its own? Ah, how delicious that would be, to not even have to lift a finger... 

Something poked his elbow. He looked down, and saw Michael passing him a folded scrap of paper under the table. He took it, unfolding it on his knee with a small glance to Crowley. He'd moved his chair as far away from him as physically possible, and he was too absorbed in eating to look over. Gabriel read the note: _No new behaviour. Visited the Drunken Boar, the Gatehouse Tavern and the Duckwing. Observations interrupted by a nosey commoner on return journey — Uriel._ Gabriel pocketed the note, planning to burn it later. There had to be some way he could exploit this bizarre habit Crowley had developed. If only he could figure out why it had begun, maybe he'd have the key to the whole problem. He'd have to keep an eye on him. If anything changed, he wanted to know about it.

If only Aziraphale wasn't so attached, he could engineer a whole plot to frame Crowley for a heinous crime, but the Queen would look too deep into it. He wouldn't rest until he'd unpicked his innocence — if the plan worked at all, which wasn't certain. The crown fiasco had proven that. Gabriel knew that if he accused Crowley of anything, Aziraphale would fuss over every tiny detail: what was admissible as evidence, what was circumstantial, what was definite and whether the witnesses could be trusted... Perhaps he'd even go far enough to rig the verdict. Infatuation did awful things to a person, in Gabriel's view. 

Gabriel would be lying to himself if he said this was just about power, at this stage. Crowley had taken thousands of years of hard work, and dangled it over the edge of a cliff. Some would argue that he'd already won; Gabriel wasn't so easily defeated, nor did he tolerate being insulted. Crowley insulted him at every turn. At court, at dinner, at the wedding... He lived to be insufferable. Gabriel hated him more than he hated the whole Unseelie race. He didn't just want to defeat him. He wanted to humiliate him, break him, make him _bleed_ with the heartbreak, and he wanted to be there to see it. He’d have thought of cuckolding him, if he wasn’t so sure it would fail. He’d have to settle for standing by Aziraphale's side while he cast his husband out, in shame and contempt. He needed to see the way it crushed him. It wasn't enough to win; he wanted _revenge._

Crowley took a bath before bed that night, trying to soothe his irritation. His argument with Aziraphale still weighed on his mind. He'd got the silent treatment at dinner, and it made his skin crawl, eating in tense silence. Aziraphale didn't even hum and wriggle in delight while he had dinner either, and in a way, that's what bothered him the most. Neither of them were happy. He dunked his head under the water as if it would simply wash the worries right out of his head, but unsurprisingly, they stuck in his mind like a bad stain. He shook the water from his hair, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could hear Aziraphale getting ready to sleep in the bedroom. If he didn't say something soon, he wouldn't be able to sleep easy tonight. 

He hurried to dry himself off, and slipped into his pyjamas. The bath was still draining when he opened the door, poking his head into the bedroom. He was dejected to find it pitch black already. Swallowing hard, he snapped his fingers, snuffing out the bathroom light. The last of the bathwater gurgled behind him. 

His night-vision picked out the lump under the sheets, gently rising and falling. The curtains were drawn, blocking the moonlight from the french window, though it couldn't hold back the nighttime sounds. Crickets chirped like morning birdsong, and an owl hooted somewhere below. Crowley idly ran his fingers over the bedposts as he made his way around to his side of the bed. He lifted the sheets, and slipped in beside Aziraphale. His eyes were closed. Crowley rested his head on the pillow for a moment, watching, weighing his next words carefully. 

"I know you're not asleep," he said. 

"Astute observation," Aziraphale replied without opening his eyes. Crowley sighed, and the sound mingled almost seamlessly with the background hum of nighttime insects which accompanied the cool breeze through the open window. 

"Aziraphale..." he said. "There's nothing wrong with me, you know."

With a slight crinkle in his brow, he finally opened his eyes. "How can you be so sure?" he said, his anger finally wavering. "I'm... for heaven's sake, I'm frightened for you, Crowley."

He sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah, I know," he said, reaching across the mattress tentatively. Aziraphale watched the dark silhouette of his hand, and let it take his own, squeezing slightly. "But you just have to trust me."

There was a long pause. The crickets talked amongst themselves. "Am I to assume, then, that... this sort of thing has happened before?" he said. He couldn't make out Crowley's expression, or the way it creased slightly as he wondered how much he could safely divulge. 

"Now and then," he said eventually. "It'll pass."

He watched Aziraphale's expression intently, his eyes cutting through the shadows. Several emotions passed over it: pinched irritation, worry, insecurity, until acceptance finally won out. "Oh, all right then," he said. "But if something goes terribly wrong, then you and I shall be having very stern words about how you look after yourself in future."

Crowley chuckled, a soft and genuine sound that made Aziraphale's heart flutter. "Deal," he said, disentangling their hands to lift his arm slightly. "C'mere."

Still a little unaccustomed to affection, but certainly craving it, Aziraphale shuffled tentatively into Crowley's arms. He could scarcely believe it. Just this morning, he'd wondered how he might ask for this very thing, and now he had it. It was like Crowley could read his mind. He sincerely hoped not, though, because that would be absolutely mortifying given the number of self-indulgent fantasies he'd entertained since they’d first met. That thought was like woodworm. Even as he lay against his chest, the safest he could possibly feel, his heart-rate began to pick up. What if he _could_ read minds? It was beyond the scope of most magics, or so they said, but he was a fae of legend. He was one of a kind. No one knew the full extent of his power. Licking his lips nervously, Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

"Crowley?" he said. He hummed in response, drowsing, his chin resting on the top of Aziraphale's head. "Um... you wouldn't happen to be a telepath, would you? A mind-reader, so to speak."

He drew back, frowning at him. "Uh. No," he said, baffled. "Where's that come from?"

"Nothing. Nowhere," he said quickly, trying to hide his face back against Crowley's chest. "No reason. It's not important."

A sly grin began to creep over his face. "What if I gave it a go?" he said, toying with Aziraphale's hair. He felt him take a sharp breath. "Can't be that hard, right?"

He sat up abruptly, his eyes stretched open and his pupils blown wide by the shadows. "No!"

"Why? Keeping secrets, angel?" he said, tucking his hands behind his head as he lay back against the pillows. Aziraphale scrambled for an answer. Crowley hummed and scrunched his face up for a moment. "Hm... right, I think I've got it. I know what you're thinking."

"You do?" he said. Crowley could see the pinkness on his cheeks even despite the darkness. 

"Yeah. You're thinking about... um... politics, obviously. Worrying about tomorrow," he guessed.

Aziraphale relaxed immediately, realising that this was just a game. He rolled his eyes, partially at himself. "Oh, I ought to have known. You're swizzling me."

"Sw — ? What?" Crowley echoed, his nose wrinkled in confusion. " _Swizzling_ you?"

"Indeed," he sniffed. 

"Oi, look, even if that was a real word, I'm not," he said, sitting up slightly. "You're thinking about... food. No, wait. Books. It's got to be books. It's always books."

Aziraphale huffed, shaking his head and casting a fond glance his way. His eyes flicked down for an instant, onto Crowley's mouth, and that tiny detail gave it all away. "Not books, no."

Crowley hesitated. "Are you thinking of kissing me?" he said, almost inaudibly. Aziraphale froze. 

"W... Well," he said, nervously glancing away. He chewed the inside of his cheek. "I suppose I am now."

Crowley sat up even further, a hunger of a different kind now stirring inside him. He reached out, and gently turned Aziraphale's face back towards him. For a moment, they stayed that way, barely an inch apart and waiting for the other to make the first move. It was that day under the caravan all over again, but this time, there was no invisible barrier between them. They truly were alone in a little world they had only just begun to build together, and Crowley was suddenly and utterly consumed with the desire to stay here.

He leaned forward, brushing their lips together in a kiss that was a thousand times more sincere than the one they'd shared on their wedding day. Now, it was theirs. It wasn't for a crowd of onlookers, or a Queendom of expectant citizens. It was for Aziraphale, and him alone. He drew back only for a moment before Aziraphale closed the gap again, his hands reaching to cup his face, to show him the love he so dearly deserved. Crowley held him closer, deepening the kiss as they moved in tandem like the steady, graceful ebb and flow of the tide. 

Eventually, they pulled back, hardly able to recall how they'd tangled themselves together so closely. They rested their foreheads together, catching their breath. They murmured quiet nothings under their breaths, words that were lost to any ears but theirs as the crickets sang. Carefully, softly, Crowley pulled Aziraphale down into the pillows beside him, holding him like the most delicate flower. His reverence wasn't lost on Aziraphale. He was engulfed by it, drunk on it, as he lay there with him. As he began to drift to sleep, he hoped that Crowley felt as safe and as loved as he did, in that moment. 

...and as a matter of fact, he did.


	24. Oh Deer

Crowley woke up in the small hours of the morning. Aziraphale was pressed into the bed, almost underneath him; he must've rolled on top of him in his sleep. He grunted, pushing himself up. His muscles quivered, as if under great strain. He immediately noticed what had roused him. He was hungry — in fact, no. Hungry didn't cover it. He was starving; frothing at the mouth, sick with appetite, the kind of hunger that _hurts._ He bit back a groan, clutching his stomach. His breathing laboured as he carefully lifted himself off the bed, stumbling slightly as his feet hit the floor. He glanced back at the bed. Aziraphale didn't stir, his soft snores continuing to fill the room. 

Crowley made his way to the door, creeping out onto the spiral staircase without a noise. He leaned heavily on the wall, and came into the corridor half-hunched and whimpering in discomfort. It was a long walk to the kitchen, but the thought of finally being able to eat was the only thing keeping him on his feet. This had to be the worst of it, it had to be... The double doors to the kitchen were never locked, always able to swing freely in both directions to accommodate for the numerous people coming and going in the day. He burst in, not caring how much noise he made. No one could hear him. The staff were all at home, and the nearest thing to the kitchen was the dining room. There wasn't a soul around. 

He pulled open the cupboards, sweeping aside jars until he found the dried meat he'd been snacking on for days. He snatched a handful, and swallowed them all. It felt good, to finally take his food in lumps, like he was _supposed_ to. Eating in those tiny chunks was nothing short of infuriating to him, and deeply unsatisfying. He rolled his neck, breathing in deeply as he waited for the food to settle that pain knotting his gut. It wasn't enough. Flakes of dry food would never do the trick. He hissed furiously, pushing the jar back into the cupboard and slamming it shut. He needed something more substantial. 

He scrambled to his feet, slightly dizzy, and lurched toward the other side of the kitchen. He opened and shut every drawer and cupboard he found, but there was hardly a scrap of meat anywhere. He shrieked, beginning to get angry. He was losing himself, succumbing to the senseless frustration of an animal whose meal was quickly slipping away. Then, his nose twitched. He looked up sharply, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. There was a tang of something there, something metallic and fresh and tantalising close... His eyes quickly landed on the door to the cold room. His mind flashed back to the butcher's shop he'd passed that morning. He slammed into the metal door, and snapped the padlock with a single deft movement, hauling the room open. 

The chill barely registered on his skin when he stepped inside. His eyes had already found the deer carcass hanging from the ceiling. He leapt for it, hands outstretched. The chain rattled as its load was torn from the hook, landing on the floor with a heavy thump. A sharp crack followed, then a pop and a snap, as Crowley's jaw unhinged and spread. The carcass hissed along the metal floor, dragged inch by steady inch into his jaws as they strained to accommodate its size. Crowley let himself unravel just a little, half-transformed, enough for his jaw to unhinge and his spine to undulate in that restless, mesmerising ripple that eased his meal further and further down his throat. He knew it was a grotesque sight. What did he care? No one was here to see him, and he’d hungered for this for _days._ When he finally closed his mouth around the last of the deer's legs and swallowed it down, he'd never felt more sated in his life. He flopped onto his side with a satisfied groan and a bark of hysterical laughter.

"Exactly what the doctor ordered," he mumbled, breathing deeply. Feeling odd and heavy, he rolled over, dragging himself out of the cold room and pushing the door shut behind him. He examined his pyjamas. They were clean; the carcass had already been drained before it was hung, leaving no blood to spatter. Not that Crowley had used his teeth, anyway. He slouched against the door, looking down at himself. He daren't imagine what his human form would like like if it was distorted by his meals. Luckily, those went direct to his snake-body, which would be digesting the deer for some time yet. Only an odd weight in his belly remained. He wouldn’t feel it by morning. 

He dragged himself up, scrubbed his hands with some lemon soap and hot water, and slipped out of the kitchens. Despite how sluggish he was, he hadn't felt this good since the wedding. He wandered back to bed at a leisurely pace, a relaxed smile clinging to his face as he stepped back into the room.

Aziraphale was sound asleep, just like he'd left him. One bonus to that odd, animal protectiveness was that it made moments like these all the sweeter, when they were alone and safe in a place that was entirely their own. Though he’d never say it aloud, this room had become his nest; _their_ nest. He crept silently over to the bed, not wanting to disturb him. All felt right, in this room. Aziraphale was safe, protected, relaxed, just how he deserved to be... Crowley could give him that, expand his safe space beyond these walls, he was sure of it. He just had to try. That was a mission for tomorrow, though; maybe he’d feel less idealistic with a few hours of restful sleep to ground him in reality again. For now, though, there was a warm bed and a beautiful Queen just waiting for him to join them. He slithered into bed beside him, wrapping his arms back around his waist. Aziraphale mumbled in his sleep, but didn't wake. Crowley pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, and shut his eyes. 

"Love you, angel," he mumbled sleepily. No one actually heard him say it, but he did, right enough. 

Petronius was always the first into the kitchen in a morning. Everything here had its place. His stringent organisation was often a shock to newcomers to the kitchen, but they either got used to it or got out. He worked by lantern-light for the first quarter of an hour, gathering the ingredients for breakfast and preparing the tea. He liked mornings like these. It was peaceful, with only him in the dimly lit kitchen. 

It was only when he went to fetch a sprig of rosemary that the edge of the lamplight glinted on something on the floor. He frowned. Leaning down, he saw the broken padlock laying on the floor. His eyes tracked along the floor, up to the cold room door. He grabbed a knife from the block, and tentatively grasped the handle. He eased it open, peering inside...

"What the hell?" he said, slumping a little. The hunter's catch from yesterday was missing; not just the haunch or the prime cuts, _the whole damn beast._ He was stunned. He stepped inside, glancing around the shelves and boxes as if it might have simply lifted itself off the hook to play hide-and-seek. There wasn't a trace of the large deer which they'd hung yesterday. It was too heavy for one person to carry alone, and yet he saw no trace of any secret butchering having gone on the night before. The knives were clean, the bins were empty, and no wrapping or boxes had been taken. If it hadn't been taken apart, then there must have been at least two thieves. He just couldn't fathom it. How had they snuck it past the night-shift duty guards? Someone must have seen them. Determined to have an answer, he opened the service door and headed out to find the nearest guard.

A firm knock at the door startled Aziraphale awake. He blinked rapidly, sitting up. Crowley grumbled, tightening his grip on his waist. "Ignore it," he said, trying to keep him beneath the sheets. The nest would feel empty without him.

"Good lord, it's late. We slept in," he said heedlessly, tugging himself free from his arms and snatching his dressing down from the coatrack as he hurried to the door. He slipped it on just before he answered the door. "Ah, good morning, Michael. What can I do for you?"

Crowley groaned, pressing his face into the pillow. "Court session started half an hour ago, your majesty," Michael explained. He glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder, seeing the sleep-mussed Dullahan amongst the sheets. "We were just wondering whether you were attending or if you were, um... occupied."

Aziraphale looked back to the bed, and took a small gasp as he realised what he meant. "N — No! Nothing of the sort, Michael, really — I — we were just — " he said, becoming so flustered that Crowley lifted his head and squinted at the door. 

"Minding our own business," he interrupted loudly. "Bugger off. Can't a married couple get any peace in their own bedroom?"

Michael set his jaw, hoping Aziraphale might rebuke him. He didn't. He stammered and fiddled with his hands, looking nervously away. Michael might have thought the worst, but he didn't see any teeth-marks on his neck, nor any sign that he'd sloppily redressed on his way to the door. Nothing had happened. Crowley was just being Crowley. 

"Of course. My apologies, sire," he said, bowing. "I'll notify the court you won't be attending."

"No, no, don't do that," he said, waving his hands. "Just give me a moment and I'll be right down. I overslept, that's all."

He shut the door and leaned against it, dragging his hand over his face. He shrugged off his dressing gown again and bustled around the room. He combed his hair, went in and out of the bathroom several times, and fussed over what shirt to wear. It was like a fast-forwarded version of what he did every morning. Crowley watched him lazily from the bed, with no intention of moving. His midnight feast had made him sluggish and dull-minded, in dire need of another long nap. Eventually, Aziraphale decided on a shirt and disappeared behind his dressing screen. Crowley rolled over, watching his silhouetted outline shrugging off his pyjamas through the semi-opaque panels. If he _had_ been a cat, he’d be purring right now. It was a gratifying — if tantalising — view. His forked tongue flickered out for a moment, idly fantasising about following him behind the screen and running his hands over that outline...

"Why not hold court in the afternoons?" he called, letting one arm hang off the bed. "Maybe then you could have a lie-in."

"With a whole Queendom to run, all by myself? Not likely!" he replied, pulling on his trousers. "I have a routine, Crowley, and it works perfectly well."

He scoffed, and rolled his eyes. "I heard that!" Aziraphale said. He poked his head around the screen. "And if you're planning to join me, I suggest you get out of bed quickly."

"Nah," he said after a moment. Aziraphale huffed, but didn't argue, and disappeared again behind the divider. "Come on, angel. Y'know it's not really my scene."

"That's never bothered you before," he said, buttoning his shirt. 

"Yeah, but I only just woke up," he said, laying back amongst the pillows with his hands behind his head. "Besides... it's starting to give me the creeps. Some of 'em have actually started being nice to me now."

"So they jolly well should!" he said, stepping out from behind the divider while still doing up his bow-tie. He shot him a conspiratorial glance as he passed. "Though in truth, it doesn't surprise me that they chose to start now."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" he said, watching him pick his coat off the rack, his eyes falling to his hips while his back was turned...

"It's a dreadfully simple thing, really. The most powerful fae at court are the ones that spend the most time with me — my dukes, historically — because they have the time and position to influence me," he said, with a sly glance back toward him as he shrugged on his coat. "Or so they like to think."

He stepped up to the mirror, tugging his lapels flat and straightening his bow-tie. Though he didn't acknowledge it, he noticed the way Crowley's eyes raked down him from behind, not realising he could see him in the mirror. He wriggled in self-satisfaction. "The consort doesn't have any formal powers of their own, but, well... no one has my ear more than you," he said, doubly pleased by that thought. "For all intents and purposes, Crowley, you've just become the most influential of them all."

Crowley raised his eyebrows and hummed in understanding. "Nice," he said, and pulled the sheets down, running his fingers invitingly over the mattress with half-hooded eyes. "Can I use my unrivalled influence to tell you to come back to bed?"

"Tempting, but sadly not. Duty calls," he said, checking the time and going to open the door, oblivious to the flirtation. "I'll have some breakfast sent up soon. You must be famished by now."

"Huh? Hm, oh, right," he said, slumping back down, abandoning the temptation. Well, it was a long shot anyway. "Alright. Thanks, angel."

Court was uneventful, and mercifully short, since he'd turned up late. He received a messenger from another realm near the end, telling him that their queen planned to visit for his upcoming creation-day. He was turning six thousand this year, which was an impressive age even for a Queen. There would be yet another feast, another party, more singing and dancing... He did love to see his people happy, but for once he wished he could just spend his creation-day how he wanted to. That is, cloistered in the library with a cup of tea, perhaps with Crowley dozing in his lap, and nobody to bother him. Unfortunately, that was rarely an option. At least he could speak with another fellow queen for a change, albeit a rather young and boisterous one. He'd helped her, centuries ago, when her tree had first germinated, and they'd been on good terms ever since. He had nothing to fear from her, unless a headache counted.

He had just dismissed the messenger when one of his own guards arrived, looking skittish. He tentatively climbed a few of the steps, to Aziraphale's surprise. People didn't do that without permission — well, unless you were Crowley. "Can I help you?" Aziraphale said warily.

"Your majesty..." they said, their voice low, as if they wanted no one to hear. Sensing this was meant only for his own ears, he beckoned the guard closer, leaning up from his throne. A few courtiers watched curiously. The guard leaned close to Aziraphale's ear and murmured: "There's been a small security breach in the palace."

He drew a sharp breath. "Where?" he said quietly.

"The kitchens. Only a large deer carcass was taken; we've investigated, and we think that multiple people were involved. It was taken whole, and it was too heavy to be carried alone," they explained. "We swept the surrounding area and found no tracks, nor any signs of blood or bones. It just... well, it just vanished, sire."

He stroked his chin pensively. "How bizarre," he said. "Did anyone see these thieves?"

"Not that we know of," they said. "They can't have taken it far. It would spoil fast in the heat and attract flies. They must have butchered and eaten it quickly, or moved it to another cold room."

He nodded in agreement. "Send guards in pairs to question the butcher's shops and grocer's in the city. See if they've been sold venison this morning, in pieces or whole, or if they know anyone who has," he said. 

He bowed. "Yes, sire," he said, before turning and hurrying out of the room again. Aziraphale frowned at the floor, in deep thought. Why would anyone steal from the palace kitchens, of all places? Perhaps the thieves figured that if anyone wouldn't miss a piece of meat, it was the wealthiest fae in the realm, but the stolen carcass wasn't Aziraphale's main concern. He left the throne room quietly, pondering. He ran into Crowley on his way down the stairs. 

"Oh! Hello, dear," he said, with a momentary smile. "Care to join me? I was just about to pop into the gardens."

"Alright," he said, promptly turning on his heel and following him outside. He expected him to strike up a conversation as they made their way outside, but he didn't. He glanced at him a few times, perturbed by the silence. "So... whereabouts are we going?"

"I have a little private space we can visit," he said, guiding him down the stairs and to their left. There was a tall corridor of roots amongst the tangle spreading out from the tree, leading them down to a black metal gate. Aziraphale opened it, stepping aside. "After you."

Crowley stepped inside, and gave a long whistle. "Woo-wee. Nice place you've got here," he said, taking in the flowering vines creeping up the side of the tree and the gurgling pond. He felt the reptilian urge to lie down on those warm, flat stones by the water's edge, but resisted. "You've kept this quiet, haven't you?"

"Well... no one's really allowed in, only me," he said shyly, closing the gate behind them. "It's a royal sanctum of sorts, but you're welcome to use it any time you like."

Crowley gave a short laugh, sitting down in the sheltered garden seating in the corner. Aziraphale followed. "A royal sanctuary when there's only one royal?" he said incredulously. 

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. "Well... I've always hoped that there'd be more than one, eventually..." he said hesitantly. Crowley gulped, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn't addressed that before. 

He cleared his throat. "How many more?" he hazarded to ask. 

"That would depend," he said, aimlessly readjusting his shirt collar, avoiding his eye. "It's not my decision alone."

Crowley nodded dumbly, unable to respond. He struggled to imagine himself with a family. It's not that he didn't want one — his snake-self had always been keen on the idea — he'd just never allowed himself to seriously entertain the possibility before. He'd never thought anyone would be mad enough to love him, let alone want... _that_ from him. He flexed his hand, not noticing Aziraphale again until he felt his hand reach out and take his. "There's no rush, you know," the Queen said gently. “We have all the time in the world.”

Crowley stared for a moment. "Mm. Yeah. I know," he said. He looked away, but didn't let go of his hand. He decided to change the subject. There were far too many hormones at play inside him for this topic, this close to shedding. "You looked worried earlier. Something happen?"

It took him a moment to remember, and it all came rushing back. He fidgeted uneasily. "Ah. Um... Yes," he said, sighing. "There was a theft from the kitchens. A whole deer, would you believe!"

"... Oh," Crowley said after a long, heart-stopping moment, at the end of which he realised he had to act surprised. In his frenzy, he'd forgotten that someone would probably notice something that big going missing. "S'weird."

"Quite," he said, staring across the garden as the birds cheeped overhead. Judging by the way they'd gathered on the tall roots enclosing the space, Aziraphale probably fed them fairly regularly. "It's been bothering me, actually."

"Why?" he said, nervous. 

"Who would be so desperate for food that they'd steal from me?" he said. "What if someone in this Queendom is out there, starving, right under my nose? Don't they know they could have just _asked_ for something to eat, and I'd have been more than happy to oblige?"

"Come on, angel, sometimes it's... it's not that easy," he stammered. He was digging himself a hole here, he could feel it. He didn't want to lie, but he'd be damned if he told the truth. "It's not your fault."

"I'm the Queen, Crowley, of course it's my fault!" he said, distressed. "How could anyone starve here? The woods are overflowing with fruit and game, for anyone to take!"

"Angel, hey. Look at me," he said, leaning closer to him. Aziraphale looked, ruffled. "You can't physically do any more than you already do. Besides, I don't think anyone's starving to death 'round here. They'd stick out like a sore thumb."

Aziraphale mulled that over for a moment. "I suppose you do have a point," he said. "But that still begs the question of _why_ , though."

"Just don't think about it. It'll all sort itself out," he said, sitting back and hoping it was true. If it wasn't, well... he'd soon find himself in a whole heap of trouble. "I think you need another day off. Isn't your creation-day coming up? We can take that off together, go on a stroll somewhere. Have a picnic."

"How romantic," he murmured, mostly to himself, though Crowley heard. He shook himself. "But we can't. Another Queen is visiting that day, and there'll be a feast. I'm turning six thousand, you see."

He groaned melodramatically, flopping bonelessly back in his seat. "Another one?" he said. "How many bloody feasts do they need?"

"Come, now. It's a special day," he said weakly. He fiddled with his waistcoat, knowing that Crowley could see right through his flimsy defences. "The realm will want to celebrate. One or two people have been here right from the start. I wouldn't want to disappoint them..."

"Then do something new!" he said, sitting back up. "Lay on some music, do a parade, and then scarper back to the palace in time for tea. We can just hide in our room with some wine and wave from the balcony to show our faces. Sorted."

Aziraphale was about to protest, then he thought about it. "It is a one-of-a-kind event, and... if you put it that way, then the court couldn't technically object to a break with tradition," he said slowly. He wriggled with excitement. "Oh, Crowley, how — how _wily!"_

"S'no big d — " he began, cut off as Aziraphale's arms wrapped around his neck, dragging him down to crash their lips together in a short, heated kiss. Crowley gasped when they pulled apart, stunned. "I could get used to that as a thank-you."

Aziraphale's cheeks turned pink. "Well, you know what they say... Best to pay kindness forward and all that," he said, leaning forward again hopefully with half-puckered lips. 

Crowley chortled. "That makes no sense, angel."

"Just stop talking and kiss me, would you?" he said, and Crowley was very happy to oblige.

It only occurred to Crowley later that he’d need a gift for Aziraphale’s creation-day. That was a tall order. What could he give to a Queen who had everything? He sat in their room, idly looking around, seeing everything he’d been given over the years. Jewellery on the bureau, cosmetics and perfumes on the vanity, soaps and candles adorning the edges of the bath in the next room... He’d have thought about finding a book to give him, only he didn’t know the first thing about literature, and the library was already chock full. He’d only end up giving him something he already had. He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Why did it have to be so difficult? 

He fell back onto the bed, and the motion triggered an idea in his head. There was one thing left that Aziraphale didn’t have, and Crowley was the only one who could give it to him. He wanted an heir. However much Crowley hadn’t been expecting his life to take this path, he was in it for the long haul now. Maybe he should just get on with it. Or offer to, at least... He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t want him. Even now, alone in their room, it would be easy to let his imagination run away with him. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He tried to picture what Aziraphale would look like, flushed with a healthy glow, his belly swollen with Crowley’s baby. An unexpected shudder of excitement ran through him. He liked that idea — and the serpent in him _loved_ it. Little mini-Aziraphales, running around causing trouble... They’d be adorable. They’d be perfect, precious little living testaments to the love they shared.

But... would it be right, to father Aziraphale’s children without telling him what he really was? Their children could inherit his shapeshifting ability. They’d be half-snake. Aziraphale would find out eventually; it tore Crowley’s heart, to imagine his horror if he ever discovered what he’d given birth to. His own children, serpents... It was the greatest betrayal he could imagine. The guilt sat heavy on Crowley’s heart, but by now, he’d stopped lying to himself about running away from this realm. He didn’t want to anymore. Lying in bed with Aziraphale, kissing him, dreaming of the future... He had no intentions of walking away from that. He wanted to have his children here, with him. It was selfish to the core, maybe even stupid, but he’d already run out of good options. The window to stop all this was gone. If he left now, he’d break Aziraphale’s heart. If he stayed to start a family, he’d still break his heart, but... at least he might be able to keep it at bay for a few years. Just a few years, that’s all he asked. 

Then, he’d go quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it prudent to clear something up, after this chapter. I have addressed it in the comments ages ago, but I need to say it clearly here in case anyone is worried:
> 
> Aziraphale will not ever, at any point in this fic (accidentally or otherwise), use Crowley’s true name to force him into sex. It will not happen. 
> 
> I say this because I don’t want to agitate any anxieties about where the story is going, and to assure you that if anything of that nature were to happen then I would have used the appropriate archive warning. But I reiterate: it won’t happen (though the issue WILL be discussed by the characters in the story, and the subject of sex/reproduction and the pressures surrounding it, for Aziraphale especially, WILL play a strong role in certain future chapters).
> 
> If anyone was nervous about that, I hope I’ve alleviated some stress. 
> 
> Anyone who’s still worried can contact me to ask about possible anxiety triggers in the story. Ideally I’d like to be contacted on tumblr on my blog, worse0mens, but you can ask in the comments if this isn’t possible. I understand the struggle of anxiety, I have it myself, and I want to make this as safe and accessible as possible for everyone. If you do message me regarding triggers, please be polite and respectful — it goes without saying, really — as I’m just a fan author trying to do right by their readers. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, sorry for the lengthy end-note, and please do be kind to each other, and me, in the comments. Some of you may already be aware that relationships are a sensitive subject for me due to past experiences, and this could be the case for anyone, so do also try to be sensitive to how your words can have an impact. For the majority of you, amazing lovely and positive people that you all are, you don’t need to be told all this, but it’s an important thing to be said nonetheless. 
> 
> I have only had to do this once that I can remember in my ao3 career so far, but if there is a comment which is insensitive or distressing to me, I will delete it. It’s not a personal attack, just a way to keep this as safe and positive as possible so that I can keep writing and sharing my work with all you incredible, kind people. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for the warmth and positivity that you’ve brought to my life with your support and enjoyment for what I do. Your comments honestly make such a massive difference to my day-to-day life & struggles. I value you all, more than I can say, especially now I’ve rambled for so long! <3


	25. Creation Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song snippet in the latter part of this chapter is based on the tune from “The Song of Mor’du” from the Brave soundtrack, if anyone would prefer to have a rhythm to read with it :)

Crowley had a great idea. Offering himself up as a creation-day gift was still on the cards, but he had to make sure he didn't attend the celebrations empty-handed. As it happened, he knew where he could find the perfect gift. Problem was, he couldn't get it in this realm. He ventured out of the city the day before, crossing the meadow, delving into the southern forests. He hadn't been all the way out here in some time. He needed to do more exploring, really, he thought as he followed the dry path. Aziraphale wanted him to be king one day, if they got that far before everything inevitably went sideways. He ought to know his way around, at least. Eventually, he stopped, finding what he'd been looking for.

He stepped through the fairy ring, and was immediately hit by the chill in the air. He shuddered. He'd spent too long in summer; the damp ground felt odd underfoot, and the cold bit him right to the bone. Grumbling, he pushed through the undergrowth, and went about his master plan. It wasn't as easy as he'd planned. Too many of the autumnal leaves had fallen and turned to mush on the floor, leaving him with only the half-turned leaves still clinging to the branches. He wandered aimlessly, examining the branches as he went. When he found a leaf he was satisfied with, he plucked it. His criteria were strict, and any tree that failed to provide had vitriol hurled at them. The forest shivered in his wake, and not because of the cold breeze. 

Eventually, Crowley had a fistful of beautiful autumnal leaves, the kind that Aziraphale had seen in his first memory of life. Just as he turned to go back to the fairy ring, he heard a shrill noise over his shoulder. He frowned. Was that... children's laughter? He'd almost forgotten what a human village sounded like. He looked into the forest, back the way he'd came through the bare and dying trees, and then towards the laughing. He could see motion beyond the woods. 

Curious, he crept forward. He reached the edge of the forest, and peered at the houses on the other side of a stretch of bare grass. Small figures ran between the buildings, shouting and laughing, as their distracted parents worked in their allotments. Crowley squinted, wondering if that dark-haired boy looked familiar, or if it was just his imagination. He leaned out from behind the tree a little further to get a better look, half-hunched over in an attempt to remain unseen.

The child at the head of the group skidded to a halt, only for another to crash into his back. "Oi! Don't just stop!" they cried. 

The child shushed him harshly. "Look!" they said, nodding surreptitiously toward the woods. The group looked over, and caught a glimpse of the gangly, unnerving figure which had been slinking out of the woods. It was frighteningly pale, face framed by red hair, with long spider-like limbs... It retreated sharply out of view.

The children huddled together quickly. The parents of the village had paid much more attention to Tracy's folk stories ever since Warlock had been returned last winter in better condition than when he left. Some people still didn't believe it really was him; they claimed there was a distance in his eye that hadn't been there before. 

"What was that? Did you see its eyes?" someone whispered. 

"I don't think it had any eyes," replied the first child, shaken. From a distance, Crowley's glasses had looked like dark, hollow eye sockets. 

"That's stupid. He can see," said a voice behind them. The group turned sharply. Warlock stood back, the only one who hadn't joined their frightened huddle. He crossed his arms, cocking an eyebrow at them. "I know him." 

Warlock brushed past them, craning his neck to spot any movement in the bushes. He kept walking, across the stretch of open ground, to his peers' horror. Sharing mortified glances, they hurried after him at a distance. "Warlock? What are you doing?" his friend said, trying to grab him. He shrugged him off. 

"I'm going to talk to him," he said, jogging a few paces, nervous he'd missed him. “I miss him.” 

"What? No! Warlock, wait! What if it kidnaps you again?" a girl cried, thinking of that monstrous wraithlike figure in the trees. Warlock didn't even acknowledge her, picking up the base to run toward the trees. The group stopped, unwilling to go any closer to that otherworldly forest. The girl crossed her arms and called after him before turning to flee: "Warlock, I'm telling your mum you're talking to monsters!"

He ignored her, and sprinted over to the tree-line. He didn't hesitate before he pushed his way in through the shrubs, the leftover rainwater dampening his clothes. "Crowley?" he called. Silence. "I know you're here. I saw you."

There was a jaded sigh from above his head. He looked up, spotting him amongst the sturdy branches overhead. He dropped down onto the ground, and almost toppled backwards when Warlock threw his arms around him in a tight hug. "Hey, trouble," he said, regaining his balance. "Miss me?"

"Loads," he said, his voice muffled in Crowley's shirt. "The fairy world is all I dream about anymore. It feels so real, and every time I wake up, I expect to be there still. It's like my head won't let me forget."

Crowley gently pushed him back, crouching beside him. "Hey, come on. Don't cry," he said, wiping the tears which had begun to gather. "You belong here, Warlock, where your family is. Trust me."

He nodded, sniffling. He finally noticed the bunch of leaves held by their stems in Crowley's fist. "What're those for?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. He didn't talk about his dreams to anyone but Tracy, who'd helped him through the transition back into human life. His mother was deeply grateful, and had begun to treat the old woman like family. 

"These? They're, uh... for Aziraphale," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. Warlock tilted his head with a frown. 

"Aren't you supposed to get someone flowers if you fancy them?" he said cheekily. Crowley scoffed, giving him a light shove. 

"Actually, smart-arse, we got married this summer," he said. He waved the leaves under his nose. "And these are for his crea — er, his birthday."

"Good job. You never stopped staring at each other all the time I was there," he said with a lopsided grin. It faltered for a moment. "D'you think that... maybe I could come and visit?"

Crowley winced. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said, wrinkling his nose. Fae realms were like a drug to humans; the more they kept coming back, the less they wanted to leave. That still didn't make it right for them to stay, though. 

Warlock's shoulders slumped. "I know," he said, with a defeated smile. He reached into his pocket, digging around for a moment before pulling out a small piece of wood. He held it up to Crowley. "Could you give him this, as a birthday present? Dad's been teaching me to whittle."

He carefully took it, examining the crudely carved ornament in his free hand. It was recognisably a duck, with a cute upturned tail and shakily carved details on the wings. Crowley was almost tempted to keep it for himself, until he thought of how delighted Aziraphale would be to have it. "He'll love it. It's right up his alley," he said, tucking it safely into his pocket. 

"WARLOCK!" shrieked a woman's voice from the village. Both their heads shot up. 

"Looks like they found mum," Warlock said grimly. "I'll get in trouble for this. M'not supposed to talk to strange monster men in the woods anymore."

"That's good advice. Lucky I’m not a stranger then, eh?" Crowley said, briefly clapping him on the shoulder and skittishly retreating into the woods. He could see Mrs Dowling storming toward the woods, and even the Dullahan ran scared from a mother protecting her children. "Bye, Warlock."

"Bye, Crowley," he said, his voice softened with sadness as he watched his friend lope away into the woods. He passed behind a slim birch tree, and didn't emerge on the other side. He was gone. 

On the morning of his creation-day, Aziraphale left his room alone. Crowley had been busy the previous day, he didn't know why, but it had left him tired and subdued. He let him rest; thanks to his ingenious suggestion, the celebrations wouldn't begin until noon. Besides, they had a visitor today. It was better that he got her settled in on his own first. 

He met her in the throne room, and had forbidden his nobles from joining him. The visiting Queen was a notorious gossip, though she meant well; her court had earned itself the sardonic nickname _The Chattering Court Of Queen Mary Loquacious_. She arrived without much fanfare, but with a broad grin that spelt trouble immediately. "Mary," Aziraphale said, coming down from his throne to greet her. "Welcome, my dear."

"Pleasure to be here, Aziraphale," she replied. They shared a brief hug, narrowly avoiding a bump on the head from the large goat-horns sprouting from her skull, and she waved a hand to dismiss her guard. She was safe here. "We have so much catching up to do."

He tutted, offering his arm. She took it, and he began to guide her out and through the palace halls. They usually had tea together in his private dining room, when they met. "I daresay you've already heard enough through the grape vine to whet your appetite."

She smiled broadly. "A thing or two, yes," she said, dropping his arm as they came to the dining room. He went inside, where the tea tray had already been laid on the circular table in the middle of the small room. "I expected your infamous new consort to be here, too."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, sitting beside her. "Introducing you to him first thing in the morning would be remarkably cruel of me," he said as he poured the tea. 

Mary huffed, but didn't protest. She blew gently on her tea, holding it up beneath her nose and taking a deep breath. "So..." she said after a quiet moment. She shot him a sly look over the rim of her teacup. “The Dullahan himself... What a catch. I always knew you were holding out for someone special.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s because I told you so, but I meant that I was waiting for someone that I loved,” he said with a hint of reproach. “His, erm... His...”

“Legendary status?”

“I was going to say his day-job. Whatever you call it, that’s not why I married him,” he insisted. He looked down at his hands, turning slightly bashful for a moment. “We have a connection.”

She gave a careless hum, glancing around as if she expected to see someone joining them. "Where is he hiding, then? Your new hubby?"

"If you must know, he's still in bed," he told her, tutting. She was never one for deep or abstract discussions about love. It was a topic they viewed very differently — proven by the fact that Mary had married long before he had, despite her relative youth. 

"Oh," she said, her imagination running away with that scrap of information. "Been working him hard already, have you? Making up for lost time, I imagine."

Aziraphale choked on his tea. _"Mary!_ That is highly inappropriate, and I — I — that is not at all what I meant!" he cried, disgruntled, though she didn't waver. 

"It can't be long before you announce a pregnancy, right?" she continued excitedly. 

He gripped the edge of the table. "For Heaven's sake, Mary, that's not a question you just _ask!"_

"There's no shame in it," she said, leaning across to pat his arm. "I'd be the same, if I'd saved myself for so long. I'm sure Crowley's enjoying himself. Oh, and you're turning six thousand today! Maybe he'll do something special for you after the party, something — "

"Stop! Stop talking! Whatever vulgar nonsense is about to come out of your mouth, I'm not interested," he said, bright red and squirming in discomfort. "If this is all you've come here to talk about, my dear girl, then you had better go straight home again. I won't entertain it. This topic of conversation may not be out-of-place in your Queendom, but it certainly is here."

"Oh, alright then, grumpy," she said with a pout. He sighed in relief. "At least tell me what he's like, this husband of yours. Is he nice? Is he handsome?"

Like a cat hesitantly dipping its paws in water, Aziraphale began to describe Crowley. He hadn't expected her to stress him out so quickly, but he didn't blame her too much. Her culture was wildly different to his. Those differences turned friendly conversations into a minefield, sometimes; their ideas about taboo subjects were completely out-of-step. She was young, not even one millennium old, and she had all the restless energy of a Queen whose realm still had a lot of growing to do. She was lucky, really. If Aziraphale hadn't offered an alliance back in the early days, she probably wouldn't have lasted this long. Most Queens didn't like having a new rival sprout nearby. Plenty of young rulers died under mysterious circumstances not long after their creation, unless their neighbours were especially friendly. Royalty was a cutthroat business, after all. 

Mary soon forgot about prying into Aziraphale's marriage, and turned to the problems she had waiting at home. Now and then, he caught flashes of what was underneath that bubbly exterior. She was inexperienced, and sometimes, the enormousness of her responsibilities frightened her. Aziraphale did his best to advise her. She'd looked up to him ever since a battalion of his guard defended her sapling tree from invaders. She owed him her life. He had high hopes for all she’d do with her burgeoning realm; an alliance between the Seelie and Unseelie was a rare thing indeed. Aziraphale had always hoped that in forming it, he was sowing the seeds of more peaceful relations between the two races.

The dining room door opened after a few hours of friendly chatter between the two of them, and Crowley stepped inside. He froze. "Uh..." he said, uncertain. He didn't recognise this woman, but Aziraphale seemed at ease. "Is now a bad time?"

"No!" Mary cried, leaping to her feet and rushing over to him. Aziraphale sighed pityingly as she grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. "Bless us and preserve us, it's Master Crowley, isn't it?"

"Um," he said, shooting a helpless glance at Aziraphale. He returned it with an apologetic look. "Yes...?"

"Queen Mary Loquacious, at your service," she said, beaming. He flinched. Queens were an unpredictable bunch at the best of times, and he'd not forgotten his previous run-ins with them before Aziraphale. "Aziraphale's been telling me all about you. It looks like he's taking good care of you. You look very well."

Crowley's brow furrowed deeper. That wasn’t exactly how he viewed their relationship — he was a person, not a houseplant — but Mary didn't seem to notice his confusion. She pulled him over to the table, inviting him to sit down. Aziraphale patted his arm sympathetically as he sat. "You'll get used to her," he said tiredly. 

Public celebrations had become somewhat of a drag for Crowley already. Aziraphale briefly explained how the events would play out, and it was nothing outlandish. Clearly Queen Mary felt similarly, as she'd left before anything got underway... but not without whispering _"Your babies will be adorable!"_ in Aziraphale's ear, much to his chagrin. He’d rather not address that, today of all days.

Since it was Crowley’s first formal event as the official consort, he'd been fitted for a new outfit several days before. He'd been braced for another fight with the tailor over whether it was _proper_ to wear black as public figure, but Aziraphale had stepped in and saved him the hassle. One arched brow from the Queen, and the sour-faced tailor quickly stopped arguing. Now, Crowley had a double-breasted black waistcoat, with a dark red overcoat adorned with large silver buttons on the front and cuffs. Despite his protests, he'd also been wrestled into having a haircut, taming his hair into a slightly neater bob. 

He sat on their bed, tapping his foot, waiting for Aziraphale to come out from behind the divider. "You alright behind there, angel?" he called eventually, hearing him muttering under his breath. "You don't need me to come and fasten something up at the back, or...?" 

"No, no! I'm quite alright, if I can just get this damned thing to sit properly... It's been a while since I've had to put it on," he said. "Aha! There. I've got it."

He stepped out, and Crowley's eyebrows shot up. Aziraphale wore a floor-length, sleeveless, silky white coat with a gold trim, held shut over his pale blue shirt and beige trousers by a gold velvet rope tied around his waist. On his head, there sat a crown; the base was a band of gold filigree, where shimmering white pearls were suspended between the gaps, like a host of eyes staring out from every angle. In the centre of his forehead, the wire tapered down to a point, from which a pear-shaped diamond hung; the shape was mirrored in the opposite direction, holding a twin gem proudly over his head. Sloping down from either side of that diamond, there were two perfectly mirrored waves of gold wirework branches, embellished with impossibly delicate little blossoms, each cradling a pearl at their heart. 

"Somewhat extravagant, isn't it?" he said, self-consciously glancing in the mirror. He straightened up, practising his regal posture, honing the detached poise he was going to project during the celebrations.

"No — well, yeah, but it's... it's good," Crowley stammered, staring after him. "It's a statement."

"Is that good?" he said, dropping the royal act and turning to face him. His long coat shimmered with every movement, the delicate fabric skimming his plump frame nicely. Crowley licked his lips without even thinking, and quickly pretended like he hadn’t.

"If you've got the confidence for it," he said with a shrug, trying to play it cool. Aziraphale's face creased with worry, and Crowley impulsively corrected himself. "You look good to me."

He brightened a little. "Oh, really?" 

"Course," he said, allowing himself a soft, cheeky smile. He stood up, offering his elbow. "Now c'mon, let's go see what those muppets downstairs have got you for your creation-day."

At the foot of the palace steps, there was a large semi-circular table where Aziraphale, Crowley, and the court had all gathered. A parade had begun at the city gates, and they could just about see the excitement and colour at the very far end of the main road running through the city. It would be a long time before the procession reached the palace; they couldn't even hear the music yet. Crowds of people gathered at the edges of the street, split between the Queen's table and the lively scene at the other end of town. Crowley was right; this idea had thinned out the crowd significantly. Aziraphale was far more relaxed with a smaller cohort of the public around, the quiet ones who preferred to unobtrusively watch the court rather than take part in the parade. There were still a lot of them, but the palace plaza wasn't heaving, at least. 

Next, gift-giving. The lowest of the court presented first, and Aziraphale thanked each of them by name. Crowley sat back in his chair, trying not to doze off. The table was soon littered with open boxes and bags as Aziraphale politely approved of each present. It was only when the dukes' turn came around that Crowley bothered to keep at least one eye open. No one could tell, behind his glasses. Uriel gave him three bars of solid silver, Sandalphon gave him a book that Crowley happened to know he already had (first-edition and signed, at that), and Michael brought him the only bottle of half-decent wine on display. Gabriel took his opportunity, and went way over the top, needing several likely-unpaid servants to help him lay out his gifts. Aziraphale resisted the urge to rub his temples, and graciously thanked him. 

All eyes turned to Crowley, once Gabriel sat back down. "My turn, is it?" he said, finally sitting up from his lazy slouch. He picked up the box he'd stashed beneath his seat, and pushed it under Aziraphale’s nose. He glanced down the road, seeing that the parade had progressed halfway to the table. The first hints of music were starting to carry on the breeze.

Curious, Aziraphale tugged open the bow, and lifted the lid of the box. He found a book inside. He picked it out, turning it over in his hands. There was no title that he could see. It was clumsily bound in black leather — he suspected Crowley had done it himself — and it didn't sit perfectly closed. There was something slotted between each page...

"You're s'posed to open it, angel," Crowley drawled impatiently. The rest of the court shared bemused glances, and even Gabriel was a little lost for words. He wasn't sure what he was even looking at. 

Aziraphale looked quizzically at him, and opened the book. His brow furrowed. There was a green leaf on the first page, held in place by a thin sheen of preservative magic. He flipped the page, finding another leaf on the next page, tinged yellow at the edges. He continued turning the pages, each time revealing a leaf that was a little yellower, until the yellow began to turn to orange, and the orange darkened to a rich, deep red, just like Crowley's hair. He gently ran his fingers across that final leaf, feeling the rough, dry surface, completely alien to the vibrant leaves he'd grown used to over the years... Underneath, on that page, Crowley had scrawled a short message: _Just like you remember._ It really was. He'd seen this process in reverse, turning the autumn leaves from red to green, when he'd first woken up beneath his tree six thousand years ago, to the day. He swallowed back his emotions, a little overwhelmed. 

"Crowley..." he said softly, finally looking up at him. "You remembered."

He shrugged, trying to hide his nerves. Aziraphale had been oddly silent as he turned the pages. "S'not the kind of thing you forget," he said. Gabriel's eyes flicked between the two of them, out of the loop completely. What was so special about ratty human-world leaves? 

"Was that where you disappeared to yesterday? Gathering these in the human world?" he said, flipping back through the pages, pausing on a few which he especially liked, though the reddest leaf at the end was already his favourite. Crowley hummed and nodded. "It must have taken a long time. My, look at these, how lovely..."

"Oh, and one more thing. I ran into someone, while I was out there," he said, reaching into his interior pocket and carefully taking out the little wooden duck. He set it on the table. 

Aziraphale put his book of leaves back in its box, and picked up the duck. He held it up, running his eye over the rough workmanship. He was a little confused by it, Crowley could tell. Before he could explain, Gabriel scoffed loudly. "Oh, please. Leaves and a clumsy attempt at whittling?" he sneered. "You realise we're celebrating six thousand years of prosperity here, don't you?"

Crowley took a long, unhurried sip from his goblet. He licked his lips and set it down on the table. Aziraphale looked between the two rivals, feeling like Crowley had an ace up his sleeve somehow. "It's from Warlock," he said, smirking victoriously. "Carved it himself."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he cradled it closer to his chest almost without thinking. He wiped his eyes, trying to express his gratitude without bursting into tears. He opened and shut his mouth several times before giving up entirely, and grabbing Crowley by his shirt, dragging him into a kiss. He could hear the disapproving mutters around him, but didn't give a hoot. This was his day. Crowley was his husband. He was the Queen, and he could do as he pleased. When he pulled back, leaving Crowley breathless and Gabriel extremely bitter, his crown had slipped to a lopsided angle. 

"Thank you," he said, settling back into his chair. Crowley nodded dumbly, catching his breath again. He reached over to correct his crown and, to the unease of the dukes, Aziraphale let him. There were no rules for who could touch the crown, but it certainly didn't seem right, for Crowley to put his hands on it so easily.

Gabriel turned away from the sickeningly amorous couple. Crowley had taken advantage of his sentimental side, overshadowing Gabriel with mere worthless gifts. He could feel Crowley’s smug aura from there. He radiated it, and it wasn’t just about the gifts. The Serpent was delighted; it had just out-performed a rival male. It was a promising start to the evening. With that sense of triumph hissing in the back of his mind, Crowley lounged in his chair, deeply self-satisfied as he watched the approaching parade, still stealing hungry glances at his husband from the corner of his eye.

Finally, the music became audible. The lead dancers, dressed in blue, white, pink and yellow dresses, plush with extravagant feathers, leapt energetically closer to the palace. The crowd which had followed the procession were clapping along to beat of the musicians atop the ornate parade carts, singing along loudly. Aziraphale sighed. 

“Oh, this song,” he said with a hint of scorn. 

Crowley looked at him. “What? You don’t like it?” he said, trying to catch the words. 

“Not much,” he said grimly, picking up his cup. 

Crowley sat up, listening to the simple tune growing louder and clearer as the parade advanced. He began to put together what they were singing. “We've never seen him in our home; he won't want to catch our eye!” they belted out in unison. “We dream of all the perfect ways to make the serpent die!”

Crowley blanched. Ah. Swallowing nervously, he pressed himself back in his chair and made sure his glasses weren’t about to slip down. The amorous snake in the back of his mind quickly fell silent, vanishing again in the face of open aggression, thank someone. It left Crowley with a much clearer head. What the hell had he just been thinking...? Something about competing with a rival? He winced, rubbing his head, cursing his animal side’s bizarre mindset; it had a nasty habit of getting carried away with itself.

Aziraphale was clearly doing his best to ignore the lyrics of the song, which marched on heedlessly. He didn’t like talking about snakes, full stop. Crowley was starting to agree. He cast an eye along the table, seeing many of the courtiers tapping along to the tune. It was clearly a well-known one.

“We’d take his head right from his tail and hang it o’er the fire,” the parade-goers changed. “Slither close ye scaly beast and we’ll throw you on a pyre!”

Crowley fiddled nervously with his collar. Well, this was fun. He was sat beside the husband he hadn’t expected to have, listening to a song about all the ways he’d be violently murdered by an angry mob, if anyone ever found out his true nature... He was beginning to regret the parade suggestion. Unsettled, he reached out, taking Aziraphale’s hand. It was warm and comforting, anchoring him, even in the face of the advancing crowd. He firmly reminded himself that he was safe, for now. They still didn’t know.

The parade seemed to drag for hours. Aziraphale stuck around for a few more songs and gifts from the public, mostly flowers and homemade crafts, glancing back at the palace every now and then. He’d rather be inside. He was tired, it was loud, and he kept hearing snatches of the conversations around him. It wasn’t all cheers and smiles, especially not at the table. _Why isn’t the Queen pregnant yet? He’s been married since midsummer... But is it wise to have half-Unseelie heirs? Perhaps the Dullahan was a bad choice of consort..._ It was getting to him. Through those little snippets alone, his anxieties stirred and spat, shaking him to the core. He held out for as long as he could before he snapped, gave a short speech (very little of which he remembered after he’d finished), and pulled Crowley inside with him. As soon as he locked their bedroom door behind them, he sighed in relief. 

“Thank the lord that’s over,” he said, taking off his crown. He set it back in its drawer, where it would stay for as long as he could feasibly leave it. 

Crowley shrugged off his coat. “Didn’t think it was that bad,” he said. He’d found the music relatively entertaining, once they’d stopped singing about butchering him. He hung up his coat and turned, finally noticing the dejected slump in Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Angel?”

He sat beside him on the bed. Aziraphale leaned lightly on him, rubbing his eyes. “The party was very nice, it’s just... I happened to overhear a few things that I’d rather not have known about,” he said. He sounded exhausted. 

“Like what?” Crowley asked, supporting his weight. 

“The way they talk about me...” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as if to banish the voices replaying over and over in his head. His words strained through unfallen tears. “Like I’m just an animal to be bred from.”

That struck Crowley’s heart. He swallowed, guiltily thinking of how he’d wanted to seduce Aziraphale that very night. _Idiot._ He knew he wanted to go slow, what was he thinking? On second thought, perhaps he hadn’t really been thinking at all. Animal instincts had begun to take over, and for a while, he’d let it happen. He got carried away. He felt just as reprehensible as those courtiers Aziraphale had overheard. “I’m sorry, angel,” he said without thinking. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, his eyes rimmed red. “What do you have to apologise for?”

 _More than you know,_ he thought helplessly. “I just... I wish you hadn’t heard that,” he said, almost inaudibly. It seemed he'd vastly overestimated just how ready Aziraphale was to move forward in his grand family plan. It had sat in the planning stage for a solid six millennia, after all; he should've expected Aziraphale to stall when it came to finally moving out of that phase. He pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. “Why don’t I run you a bath, and we can just... try forgetting about this whole thing? I’ll wait for you. In here, I mean.”

Aziraphale smiled a pitifully vulnerable, grateful smile. “That sounds lovely, my dear.”


	26. Love is Blind

Things seemed to be going well. Crowley was very careful not to overstep any of Aziraphale's boundaries after their talk on his creation-day. He'd been moving too fast. He ought to be letting Aziraphale set the pace; he was the boss, after all. He didn't mind. It was a good reminder, really, helping him keep a firm lid on his more carnal urges, for Aziraphale’s sake. To be honest, he’d now developed bigger issues than feeling horny, anyway. He’d begun to get aggressive, too. 

It wasn't his choice, but the closer he came to the growth spurt, the harder it became to control his territorial nature. He was rarely away from Aziraphale's side, and nobles and servants alike felt the angry, possessive energy radiating from him when they came near.

Aziraphale had noticed, of course, but wasn't sure how to address it. First that strange bout of insatiable appetite, now mood swings... He would complain, but Crowley had gotten awfully affectionate in-between stomping around and glaring at people. Privately, he was quite enjoying it. He wondered if it was an Unseelie thing. He'd come to realise how shamefully ignorant about the Unseelie race he really was, now he'd married Crowley, and he felt far too embarrassed to ask. He'd need to find some informative, unbiased books on the subject. He should probably avoid Seelie authors. He'd speak to his head librarian about it, if he found the time. 

He was so wrapped up in thinking, he forgot his surroundings. He'd found a quieter spot in the library, at one of the study tables, where he hoped Crowley could relax away from others. He'd taken to pacing when there were too many people around, circling Aziraphale, eyeing everything with suspicion. It was somewhere between endearing and concerning. At the moment, they were alone, and Crowley snoozed on the table while Aziraphale stared into space. He didn't notice the hand reaching for his shoulder. Crowley did.

He surged up, clamping it in a vice grip. Aziraphale startled. He turned to see what Crowley had taken issue with this time. He sighed, and tried not to judge. "Let him go, dear," he said chidingly. 

Crowley tightened his grip on Sandalphon's wrist for a moment, then relented. He leant on the table, crossing his arms as the duke rubbed the bruise Crowley left. "Sire," he said agitatedly. "I need to speak to you."

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing. Crowley didn't sit down for the remainder of the meeting, and his pacing distracted Sandalphon intermittently. Crowley couldn't focus on what was being said. His skin itched and strained, and he knew he was getting close to the actual growing part of the growth spurt. It was shedding time soon. Grinding his teeth, he stopped pacing, laying his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. He looked up briefly in surprise, trying to continue the meeting. Crowley rubbed his shoulders idly, taking deep and controlled breaths in an attempt to distract himself from his discomfort. Aziraphale could do little else but appreciate the impromptu massage.

The duke eventually left, and the moment his heels disappeared around the corner, Crowley relaxed and buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. "Dear?" he said, trying to get a look at him. "Crowley. What has gotten into you recently?"

"M'just tense," he muttered, breathing in the familiar cologne. 

"That was more than just tense," he said sternly. "You can't just go around intimidating my courtiers. It doesn't look good."

"Does it not?" he said idly, pressing a kiss to his neck, then another, and another... He grinned into his shoulder when he heard the light gasp it drew out. 

"Distracting me with — with affections won't work, you fiend," he said, wriggling a little without shrugging him off. Crowley nuzzled closer, doubting his words. He felt him swallow hard before he attempted to continue. "You really must stop this quarrelsome habit."

Crowley parted his lips, unable to help himself from giving Aziraphale's neck an experimental nibble. He gasped. Crowley hummed against his neck, nipping at his skin; he began to reach for his shirt-buttons, but felt him flinch. He pulled back immediately. "Sorry. Bit far?" he said, wincing. 

"Just a smidge," he said, rubbing his neck where he'd been, readjusting his collar. He cleared his throat, flustered. "Perhaps another day."

"Yeah. Course," he said guiltily, putting a little more distance between them. He got carried away again. What was he thinking? That he’d strip off in the middle of the library? Not a good look for royalty. "When you're ready."

Aziraphale was glad he understood. He was still building himself up to that kind of affection, slowly but surely. He didn't think much of their encounter in the library, other than feeling a little guilty about it, until later that night. Crowley went to bed quickly after using the bathroom, and settled on the far edge of the bed. He kept his back facing Aziraphale, and was sound asleep before he even got in bed. Aziraphale was baffled. He'd gotten used to cuddling bed, talking themselves to sleep... Had he hurt his feelings by rebuffing him earlier? He lay in bed, glancing occasionally at the silhouette of his sleeping husband, wondering if he ought to apologise. But what for? Crowley had seemed perfectly understanding that morning. It just wasn't like him to get annoyed over something like this.

To be fair to Crowley, he wasn't annoyed. He was just as unhappy on the edge of the mattress as Aziraphale was, but he'd been met with a disturbing sight in the mirror when he'd gone to brush his teeth. He was starting to develop eye caps. While he was wearing his sunglasses, he hadn't noticed the blueish sheen creeping over his vision, which by tomorrow morning would be like a blindfold. He wanted to run while he could still see, and find a safe place to shed, but it wouldn't be time for hours yet. He couldn’t just run off into the night. And what would his husband think, waking up in the morning to find that he’d disappeared without warning? He had to wait, and hide his eyes. He couldn't let Aziraphale see the eye-caps. If he knew even a little bit about snakes, there was a chance he could figure it out.

News of the incident between Crowley and Sandalphon the day before got around quickly. Gabriel had made a note of it. He'd been keeping track of every false move he'd made since the marriage, compiling them, preparing for a plan that hadn't yet taken shape. It was getting frustrating now, tolerating the sappy looks Aziraphale gave his precious husband, unable to protest. He couldn't fathom how to move forward now. Never in a million years would he be able to frame him for a crime; Aziraphale wouldn't tolerate his consort being prosecuted without trial, no matter how strong the evidence was. The truth oath would be his downfall if he even contemplated it. He couldn't exactly duel him again either, not without tainting his own image even further. He needed something, anything, to get Crowley out of the picture without Aziraphale realising that there had been any foul play. He'd never consider remarrying if he thought his husband had been wrongly outcasted, nor would he marry Gabriel if he'd had anything at all to do with the downfall of his first love. He had to walk a fine line now, more than ever... 

Aziraphale seemed distracted at court. Crowley was nowhere to be found, and all the queen would say is that he was tired. He didn't seem to want to talk about it. There was something in his voice, like he was dejected somehow. Gabriel was intrigued. Now desperate for anything that would further his cause, he slipped away, using Aziraphale's absent-mindedness to cover his escape. 

He stood at the corner a hallway, watching the arch leading to the spiral staircase, waiting for Crowley to emerge from his bedroom. He was in luck. He didn't have to wait long before a rustling and cursing came from the top of the staircase, and footsteps began to descend. Gabriel shied back behind the wall, peeking out only slightly. Crowley stumbled into view. He was haphazardly dressed; several of his shirt-buttons were in the wrong holes, and it hung loosely over his trousers, like he didn't even attempt to tuck it in. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, drifting across the corridor as he walked. Curious, Gabriel followed at a distance. 

The more he walked, the more unsteady he became. He began to bump into corners as he passed, and trip over things that were plain to see on the floor. He seemed to have a path in mind, though, and he soon came to a little-used service door that led out into a narrow root corridor. No one was around. Gabriel let him have a headstart before stepping out after him. 

Crowley's meandering gait was even worse out in the sun. He drifted past the gardens, surreptitiously holding his hands out here and there to brush his hands over shrubs and trees as he passed. If he heard any voices approaching, he stopped, and leaned innocuously against the nearest solid object he could find at short notice. Gabriel always took that as a cue to hide. Someone had challenged Uriel for spying on Crowley before, after all. He'd never acted this strangely before, though. Was he drunk? Intoxicated? Delirious?

He tailed him all the way to the stables, leaving a significant distance between them, since he had no cover to hide behind on the open road near the pasture. As Crowley passed the field, Gabriel saw the stable-hands wave at him. Crowley didn't even acknowledge them. He just kept walking, holding his head up high and glancing around in a slightly misjudged attempt to seem normal. The stable-hands didn't even spare a glance for Gabriel when he walked by a few minutes after Crowley. 

To his surprise, they passed into the northern pine forests, where hardly anyone bothered to go. There was nothing useful out here. It was all pine needles and cold water, which faded away into barren moors and later reared into rugged mountains. What did Crowley want out here? Thankful that the wind was blowing his scent away from Crowley's keen feline (or-so-he-thought) nose, he pushed on, eager to find out. In his enthusiasm, he tripped, propelling himself a few paces forward and around the corner of the path, fully in-view. A twig snapped underfoot. Crowley whipped around, staring right at him. Gabriel froze. There was a long silence. 

"Who's there?" Crowley called, tense. Gabriel frowned, taken aback. He wasn’t even a hundred metres away, in the middle of the path. He stayed silent. "Hm. Bloody deer or something..."

Crowley turned around, and kept walking. Gabriel stood for a moment, in awe of what just happened, and finally realising why he'd been so odd the whole way here. _He can't see,_ he thought, cautiously following him further down the trail. 

Eventually, Crowley stopped, reaching out toward the trees lining the path. He brushed aside the bracken, and began to wade into the undergrowth, seemingly at random. Gabriel stayed on the path, unable to follow without making more noise that would give himself away. He watched the dark figure move through the trees, bumping into them until he ran into a gnarled, stubby acorn tree. He felt it for a moment, leaning experimentally on the branches, seeing if they would take his weight. They did. Gabriel watched through the branches, confused... 

Crowley stepped onto one of the stooped branches, shakily feeling his way into the tree until he was wedged between two diverging branches near the trunk. Then, finally, he relaxed. He let all the tensions of the last few weeks unravel, picking apart the knot of frustration in his belly, taking the first step to soothe the itch in his skin... His coils draped loosely over the branches, slipping for a moment before his sinuous body got a firmer hold on the bark. It felt good to be a snake again, albeit only to shed. Eager to get started, and finally progress to the next part of the cycle, he began to rub his head against the tree, feeling the exquisite relief of his old skin begin to peel off. 

Gabriel stood, slack-jawed, on the path. His heart hammered an irregular beat in his chest as he watched the squirming creature in the tree which, just moments ago, had been the fae to whom Aziraphale had promised the crown. A grin began to stretch his features. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that fate would hand him such a perfect way to usurp his rival. To think, after all these years of keeping their eyes to the ground, that the serpent would walk into the realm on two legs! A shapeshifter, he should've known... He crouched down, creeping back up the path toward the city before Crowley peeled back enough skin to see. He knew a quicker route home. He took it at a sprint. A devious plan was forming already. He needed to keep himself out of this; what was the point in getting rid of Crowley if he couldn't win Aziraphale for himself afterwards? He couldn't afford to become tainted by delivering the bad news. 

The citadel walls came into view, and he paused at the edge of the woods, panting. Revenge was so close he could taste it. He'd soon be able to inflict every ounce of delicious, poetic justice onto Crowley that he'd dreamt of. He took a deep breath, and snapped his fingers. An illusion wove itself around him, disguising him with a plain, wrinkled face and common clothes. It would be more than enough to hide his identity amid the panic that would soon break out. 

Crowley wriggled and rubbed himself against the tree bark, using the rough surface for purchase as he shed his skin. He let out a long hiss. It was a perfect feeling, every tug and pull of his skin sending a fresh ripple of relief through his body. God, he needed this. That awful constructing itch had plagued him for days. He wondered how much of his irritability was really down to him being territorial, and how much was down to him just being plain bloody uncomfortable. 

With his now-uncovered eyes, he positioned himself perfectly around the tree, gently working his way through the shed. There was no rush. As long as he was back before lunch, it would be fine. This skin was coming away very easily, though, so he doubted he'd need to worry. He'd have plenty of time to bury or burn the skin, and still take a nice scenic stroll home. Then, come nightfall, he'd wrap himself back around Aziraphale in bed like he wanted to do last night, to make up for how he'd been recently. It was only fair, he supposed. His snake traits and habits would take a few more days to fade completely after this shed, but they'd be much more pleasant from here on in. He'd enjoy sunbathing and soft, warm blankets for a good while; maybe even the company of a certain soft, warm queen, too, if he was forgiven...

_"SNAKE!"_ Gabriel bellowed, bursting into the gatehouse in disguise. "Snake in the northern forests!" 

The guards were stunned and for a moment, nobody moved. Even the lieutenant was dumbstruck, but she was the first to come back to herself. "A snake? You're certain?" she said, snatching her sword from the table and strapping it to her belt. 

"I'd know a monster like that anywhere," Gabriel said, using his breathlessness to play a frail old man. "It was black and red, with enormous teeth and coils that could crush a man's skull like eggshells."

Horror flashed across the lieutenant's face. She knew the prophecy as well as anyone, and she was more loyal to her Queen than her own blood. That horror quickly twisted into vitriolic rage. "Muster the guard! Send a unit to defend the Queen, don't let him out of your sight, and block every entrance to the palace," she barked, jabbing her finger at the soldiers about the room. "I want watchmen on every parapet. Bar the gates. I need a battalion of soldiers with me to sweep the northern forests, armed to the teeth, you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am!" was the chorus in return, and they all scrambled to follow her orders. Fear was painted across every face. 

She turned to Gabriel, with fire in her eye. "You, take me to where you saw it," she said, burning with intensity. "Can you remember?"

Gabriel stomped on the urge to smile. "Vividly."

The moment Crowley slithered free from the last section of skin, pain shot all the way up his skin and into his skull. His whole body twisted in shock, dislodging him from the tree. He hit the ground with a heavy thump, left writhing amid the bracken as the final stages of the cycle took hold. A sharp _crack_ broke the quiet. He hissed, feeling new vertebrae snap into existence, elongating his spine. Darkness blotted his vision as his whole being seared with agony. His new skin was pliable, stretching to accommodate his new size as his coils grew thicker and heavier. The growth accelerated relentlessly — thirty-five feet, forty, sixty, ninety...

Aziraphale was handling a complaint when a unit of guards burst into the throne room, startling him and everyone inside. They swarmed the room, shouldering aside the nobles, heading for the throne. Aziraphale was incensed. "What the devil is going on?" he cried, standing from the throne. "Court is still in session!"

"Your majesty, forgive us," said the guard-captain who led them. His soldiers were shepherding the court out of the room, forcing out the ones who began to struggle. "The lieutenant sent us to protect you."

"Protect me from what, exactly?" he said, crossing his arms. He'd never known the lieutenant to be so twitchy. She was usually stable, steady and pragmatic, not prone to sudden overreactions or infringing on royal duties. The room was now empty of anyone but him and the guards. 

The captain swallowed hard. "Someone raised the alarm in the gatehouse," he said. "A snake has been spotted in the northern trails."

Aziraphale's blanched. "It... it can't be," he breathed, a tremor running through to his hands as the sickening gravity of that statement washed over him. 

"A battalion is already on its way to investigate, sire," he said, puffing out his chest and attempting to seem in-control. "We've taken every possible measure to keep you safe until they return."

Feeling weak at the knees, Aziraphale sank back down into his throne, gripping the arms tightly. His breath was shallow and dry. "S — Someone fetch Crowley," he rasped quietly.

"Pardon, sire?"

"Someone find my consort, for heaven's sake!" he shouted, and the captain flinched, almost tripping himself over on the stairs. He echoed the order, and one guardsman left the room. Aziraphale rubbed his temples, mostly in an attempt to hide the way tears were beginning to sting his eyes. He trusted his soldiers with his mind, but in his heart, only one person was worthy of calling himself his protector. Once Crowley was here, he'd feel safer. 

Crowley drew himself up from the ground, his muscles quivering. They were new, but lean and bolstered by the obscene amounts of meat he'd eaten to prepare. As he dragged his head clear from the ground and lifted it, he became progressively more shocked by just how far he could raise it. The back of his head brushed past the low-hanging branches of the trees, and he towered over the little acorn tree which, moments ago, he'd been able to sit in. If he tried now, he'd crush it. 

_Well... this is a thing,_ he thought, looking down at his enormous body. _I'm a great big bugger now, aren't I?_ He briefly wondered if he'd now graduated from snake to wyrm. At its thickest point, his body would be around knee-high on Aziraphale. He had no idea it was even possible for him to get so big, and the one saving grace is that the larger he got, the more his growth spurts spaced themselves apart. He wouldn't be getting any bigger now for a thousand years, minimum. 

Still, this... this was unthinkable. No human-world snake could sustain a body this large. He was a titan. He was lucky he’d gone outside to shed, or he’d have wrecked a whole room in the palace with all his thrashing and hissing. He’d have been found. That would be a tough one to explain to the guards.

The lieutenant led the group via the stables, insisting on a mounted unit which would scout ahead in search of the snake. Gabriel thought they were losing valuable time by going that way, but in his commoner disguise, he didn't have much sway. It was a sacrifice he had to make. At least when he'd seen Crowley, he seemed to be taking his time with his shed. He hoped he'd still be there. He mounted the horse he was given, and led the way into the woods. If he was lucky, they'd find him there in that tree, caught red-handed — or red-bellied, rather. He smirked, wondering if he’d shift back as a last resort and bear the shame and humiliation, or if he’d rather die as a worm in a tree. There was no getting out of this one. It was over. 

The guard timidly pushed his way back into the throne room. A wall of spears pointed at his nose for a moment before his comrades recognised him, and allowed him inside. The blades were the least of his worries. Gripping his own weapon like a child with a teddy bear, he approached the Queen. It would've been hard not to notice the tension in his shoulders.

"Um, your majesty?" he said, swallowing hard as the icy gaze snapped onto him. "I... I couldn't find Master Crowley. I checked everywhere, and asked around. Nobody's seen him today."

Aziraphale twitched. "Not even in our bedroom?"

He shook his head, clutching his spear closer to his chest. "He isn't there, sire," he said. "I can't find him anywhere in the palace."

He took a sharp breath. "Then that means — He could be out there, with the — the serpent!" he said shrilly, a fresh bolt of panic running through him, this one more potent and real than the last. "He won't have heard the alarm! He has no idea what's out there, he could be in danger!"

The captain stepped up, taking his subordinate's arm firmly. "The battalion is searching for the beast as we speak, sire," he said, trying to soothe his nerves. "They'll do a thorough sweep of the woods and, if your husband is there, they will find him too. The Master will be perfectly safe."

Crowley shrunk back down, his joints popping into place again as he re-grew his arms and legs. He fell back onto the mossy ground with a grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. He sat there for a while, taking deep breaths. His shed skin still hung in the acorn tree, like a sinuous phantom. He cursed himself as he leaned against a pine tree, wishing he hadn't wrapped himself in so many loops and turns while he shed. It would take ages to disentangle the skin from the branches; getting it off in one piece was the only way to ensure he got the whole thing, and got rid of it. 

The wind changed, and an alarming scent hit Crowley's nose. He sat up, heart lurching. It was metal, leather and adrenaline, and soon the hoofbeats carried on the wind as well. He caught a flicker of movement between the trees, moving rapidly closer. "Shit!" he hissed, glancing between the path and the skin. There was no time to disentangle it now. Even if he tried, he didn't want to be caught with a fresh shed-skin in his hands. He had to hide, fast, and hope no one started making any links between him and the skin. 

He turned, and launched himself into the nearest tree. It was pine, not ideal for climbing, but he had to make do. Aziraphale's guard were excellent trackers, and they'd be able to follow his trail of footsteps quicker than he could leave them. They'd catch him that way. His muscles burned from exhaustion and strain as he hauled himself higher into the tree, a frenzied survival instinct driving him constantly higher. Voices were approaching. He stopped climbing, having already reached a dizzying height, though he thankfully couldn't see the forest floor through the branches below him.

"This is where I saw it," said an unfamiliar voice. 

"You're certain?" replied another, one Crowley vaguely recognised as Aziraphale's lieutenant. 

"Just off the path — look!" said the other. Crowley held his breath, clinging to the tree as he heard the undergrowth rustle below. "It's... it's just the skin. The snake was here, I swear it!"

"I believe you," she replied. Far below Crowley, she and the empty shell of a serpent stared at one another. She drew her sword, lifting the head up with the flat of her blade, staring into those vacant, milky white eye-caps. The proof was undeniable. She raised her voice so the others could hear. "Gather the skin, and mark this tree. No one enters the northern woods from now on. Search for tracks, and comb the trails first. Move!"

Crowley grimaced. _Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit! Why me?_ he thought, resisting the urge to bash his head against the tree trunk. He stayed there, in mute horror, listening to the activity down below. He wouldn't be able to come down until they'd moved off to search the woods. When they did, he'd make a dash for it. 

Aziraphale couldn't sit still. He was constantly fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his legs, trying to find a comfortable position on the throne. He would never find it, not until he knew Crowley was safe. He'd read about snakes who camouflaged themselves in the grass, and struck when you least expected. He'd heard of others which could hide in the trees to attack their prey. Some simply crushed the life out of you. Over the years, he'd pictured every possible way that a snake could attack, but somehow, imagining Crowley as the victim brought the horror of it all into even sharper focus. If that creature had dared to touch his husband, he wouldn't rest until it was dead. 

The doors rattled, and begin to swing open. The soldiers raised their spears, forming ranks three guards deep around the throne. Aziraphale had to wonder whether that was overkill. Even if snakes — famously limbless creatures — could open his throne room doors, he doubted it would take thirty spears to kill it. All he was hoping for was to see Crowley step through those doors. 

He slumped a little, seeing the lieutenant push her way inside, followed by two guards carrying a wooden chest between them. There was a hollowness in her eye, and she looked at him as if she wanted forgiveness. "Your majesty," she said, bowing to the throne. Her companions dropped the chest beside her. "I assume you've heard the news."

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, glancing over her head toward the doors as if they might open again. "Is Crowley with you? He's missing."

She blinked in surprise, sharing a glance with her subordinates. "We saw no trace of him in the woods," she said. She gave a short nod to the chest by her foot. "But we did find this."

She pulled back the lid of the chest, and Aziraphale's heart dropped. Coiled inside the box were reams upon reams of white, almost ethereal, scales. Whatever had inhabited them was now long gone, leaving behind only this eerie shell. Its head sat on top, about the size of his hand. It was no little worm, that's for sure. Aziraphale ripped his eyes away, squeezing them shut. "Take it away," he said, almost begging. "Just get it out of my sight — and will someone _please_ find my husband!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT — figured I’d drop in this link to some more excellent fan-art for this story! I can’t believe how many artists have been inspired by this work, it’s so touching and I’m deeply flattered by it every time 
> 
> https://pin.it/4m3gohn


	27. Trust In Me

Crowley's journey back to the palace was hard-fought and slow. It took an hour before the guards left the acorn tree alone, and another hour before they'd strayed far enough for Crowley to risk moving. His body was numb with exhaustion, but he couldn't take any risks. His worst nightmare was coming alive, but if he could make it home without rousing suspicion, he might still make it through. Someone must have seen him midway through his shed. At least they hadn't seen him shapeshifting — or he hoped not. If they had, he wasn't just going home, he was walking to his death.

He snuck through the woods, moving from tree to tree in the canopy if he could. He avoided leaving traces of his presence on the ground as much as possible. Eventually, he began to see the edge of the woods. He slid awkwardly down the tree he'd reached, stumbling as he hit the ground. "Well," he panted, squinting at the sun as it progressed across the sky. "I've definitely missed lunch..."

He broke free from the tree-line, wading through the tall grasses beyond. He could see the palace up ahead. He didn't have far to go now, and he'd be home again. Not far now...

When he reached the willow arch which formed the public entrance to the gardens, he was surprised to find the guard there abandoning her post to run up to him. Her colleague stayed by the arch. "Master Crowley!" she cried. "You're safe!"

He flinched back, though relieved that she hadn't tried to arrest him. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She bit her lip, nervously readjusting her helmet. "The Queen will want to see you, sir," she said evasively. "You've had him worried somethin' terrible."

Perturbed, he pushed on. The guards by the palace doors were equally as happy to see him, and to tell him that Aziraphale needed him right away. He started to worry that something had happened. Well, besides the serpent thing... A spark of anger went through him as he wondered whether Gabriel had been trying anything in his absence. Aziraphale would be frightened and vulnerable; exactly the kind of thing he'd see as an opportunity. He sped up despite his fatigue.

He entered the throne room, and immediately found a spear against his neck. He froze, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. He locked eyes with the guard-captain. "... I take it Aziraphale’s mad at me?” he quipped, aiming for humour. He wasn't sure if it took, but the captain grabbed his arm and triumphantly dragged him inside, calling for Aziraphale's attention.

"Crowley!" cried the Queen, all but hurling himself down the steps to drag him into his arms. "Oh thank heavens you're alright. Where the devil have you been? You had me worried sick, you stupid man!"

Stunned, Crowley returned the hug. "Nice to see you too, angel," he said. He swallowed thickly before daring to ask. "What happened? The whole place is crawling with soldiers."

Aziraphale pulled back, and dropped his voice to a hushed tone. It was only then that Crowley had the chance to notice he'd been crying. "It's the serpent, Crowley," he whispered. "It's here."

He didn't know how to respond, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "Shit."

Aziraphale let out a helpless laugh, half out of surprise. He wiped his eye. "Quite."

He cleared his throat, glancing around at the armed guards pacing the room. The very enemy they were on the lookout for was stood in the room, with the Queen already in his grip. He subconsciously tightened his hold. "What're you going to do?"

"Um... find it, I hope," he said.

"And if you do?" he said, testing the waters. 

"Kill it," he said. Crowley flinched. "Oh, please don't look at me like that. I feel terrible as it is, ordering such a thing, but my hands are tied. It's a matter of survival.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley said, glazing over for a second. He was in over his head — way over. He swallowed hard, and dread burned like whisky all the way down his throat.

“I have ordered for it to have a quick, painless death, if it makes you feel any better," he said weakly.

"How kind," Crowley remarked dryly. Aziraphale glared.

"This is very serious, Crowley," he said peevishly. "The whole Queendom is in danger."

"Right. Yep," he said, rubbing his back apologetically. He couldn’t blame him. It was a natural response to a threat so huge. "Look, we're both stressed. Let's just go to bed, have some food brought up, and just see what they find out there. It's out of your hands now."

He sighed in relief. "Capital idea," he said, having given up on any royal duties for that day. His dukes would have to take care of it, wherever they'd run off to. He didn't really care.

Gabriel shed his disguise, and vanished into the city. They'd never find the commoner who reported the snake again. He was seething. How had Crowley escaped the search parties? By the time he was able to start mixing with the court again, they were saying that the Master was already back, and had stolen the Queen away to their bedroom. He gnashed his teeth in frustration.

He couldn't just come forward now and claim he'd witnessed the transformation; he'd ruined that for himself the moment he donned a disguise and tried to be clever about it. People would ask too many questions about why he wasn't forthright, or why he waited so long, or why he'd been in the woods anyway. Then, of course, there would be those who dismissed him out of hand as a jilted suitor, just looking to oust the new consort with outlandish accusations. That wouldn't be completely wrong. Whatever he said about Crowley now, Aziraphale would never entertain, at least not from him. Crowley was almost untouchable. He had the Queen on his side, and a slowly growing faction of the court who were mentally preparing themselves for his coronation. No one would listen to Gabriel at all, if Crowley had the crown. It was, after all, hard to hold any influence at court if the king hated your guts.

He found Uriel and Sandalphon, each standing at opposite ends of the room. He murmured in their ears, making arrangements. They gave curt nods. Gabriel spotted Michael as he left, handling a complaint from some business owner. He ignored him, slipping out of the side door to start making preparations. This was out of Michael’s depth.

Aziraphale changed into his most comfortable jumper, and settled amongst the pillows on the bed. Crowley lay on his back beside him, one arm wrapped around him. They'd had a short bickering match with the captain of the guard about whether it was sensible for Aziraphale to be alone, only to be cut down when Aziraphale himself pointed out that if the serpent could take down the Dullahan and an ancient Queen at once, the guards wouldn't have much hope. Still, they compromised, and stationed several soldiers at the foot of the staircase leading to their room.

"I feel so ill-prepared," Aziraphale murmured, resting his head on Crowley's chest. "I had so much more I wanted to do."

Crowley frowned, lifting his head. "What're you on about?"

"Well... if the serpent has finally arrived, then... I'm not long for this world, am I?" he said meekly. "I suppose six thousand years should've been enough for anyone, really. Perhaps I'm just being greedy."

"Oh, shut up, drama queen," he retorted, eager — nay, desperate — to dismiss his fears. He dropped his head back onto the pillows. Aziraphale's gasped, affronted. "You're not going to die. I'd know, if you were. I'd get tingles."

"You'd get — what?"

"Tingles. It's how I know to foretell proper deaths, and not just scare some poor sod with a cold," he said with a shrug. "You're fine. Stop worrying."

"But... wouldn't you only feel it if the serpent was close-by? Just about to strike?" he said. Crowley waved a hand dismissively.

"I'm the Dullahan, I know what I'm doing," he said. Aziraphale huffed. Crowley could tell he didn't fully believe him, even if he wanted to.

Aziraphale paused before speaking again. "It just frightens me, that's all... this faceless enemy, lurking anywhere in the realm," he said, his voice shaking again in fear. His distress went straight to Crowley's heart. "I don't even know where to look for it. Good lord, I've never felt so powerless..."

He sniffled, and a fresh wave of tears dampened Crowley's shirt. Deeply remorseful, Crowley gathered him closer, holding him to his chest. He kissed the top of his head, muttering the only truthful comforts he could offer. "I'm here, angel," said the serpent. "I'm right here. I've got you."

"I don't know where I'd be without you, dear," he mumbled into his shirt.

Crowley set his jaw. "Maybe... maybe the danger's passed, y'know," he hazarded. "If that snake's smart, it would've made itself scarce by now."

It was true; Crowley should've left months and months ago. Aziraphale looked up at him, and it stung Crowley, seeing that unwavering trust urging him to believe every word he said... "What a nice thought," he said, beginning to entertain it. Crowley drew him as close as he could, hiding his own tormented expression.

It was dark in Gabriel's greenhouse. It was a relatively humble space, crowded to the rafters with flowering plants which he paid someone else to look after. It had been a project from years back in an attempt to impress that temperamental, fussy fae he called Queen, but it hadn't worked. He'd politely accepted the invitation to visit, made a few vague comments on the plants, and wandered off again less than thirty minutes later. He'd never returned. He sometimes asked how Gabriel's plants were doing, so he kept them growing, to pretend to himself like it hadn't all been for nought. Now, under the pitch-dark sky, it served as a meeting place for him and his conspirators.

"A shapeshifter?" Uriel said, her wide eyes reflecting the flickering yellow lamplight. Long, twisted shadows hid under every leaf which leaned over the trio, like nosey spectators.

"I always thought there was something... slimy about him," said Sandalphon with a derisive sniff. "When will we alert the Queen?"

Gabriel held up his hand. "Not yet," he said. Uriel frowned. "Aziraphale is sentimental, and weak-minded. We don't want to get ourselves tarred by this silly heartbreak. We're going to engineer Crowley's downfall, but we won't be seen to be part of it."

"The serpent is destined to kill him. Isn't that risky?" Uriel asked with a detached air, tilting her head.

"He's been here long enough already. He's had plenty of opportunity — they share a bed, for heaven's sake," he snapped. "Our priority is to cleanly remove him, and get on with our lives."

"Will Michael be joining us?" Sandalphon said, looking around like he expected their fourth member to push his way through the leaves. Gabriel scoffed.

"He doesn't have the nerve. He'd go running to the Queen without stopping to think what it would mean for us," he said, rolling his eyes. "But the both of you... If I can count on your support now, then I'll return the favour, when I'm king."

"Is that a promise?" Uriel said with interest. There was a gleam in her eye.

Gabriel held out his hand. "In exchange for your loyalty? Power like you couldn't imagine. Promise," he said. She shook it, and Sandalphon did the same. Neither bothered to check his other hand, under the table with its fingers crossed. It was a juvenile trick, but a useful one. Gabriel grinned broadly at them both.

"So... the plan?" Sandalphon said, leaning forward.

"We've been fighting blind for too long. No one knows the Unseelie like their own kind," he said as the lamplight flickered and waned on a sudden gust of breeze. "I think it's time we fought fire with fire, don't you?"

The city was tense. Rumours had spread about what could be lurking in the wilds, and now Aziraphale had confirmed them. A serpent had entered the realm. Guards now patrolled the walls above at all hours, and all barrels and boxes were searched before they passed the gates. Every entrance, exit and passageway was watched, from the main city gates to the smallest tower window. Aziraphale had done his best to see that life within the walls was as normal as possible — it wasn't his people he had to fear, after all — but the mood had shifted. Those who had rejected Crowley before were beginning to come around to the idea. They only had one consort, after all. That meant one shot at an heir, under threat of total ruin. They'd even accept a half-breed as Queen if it meant life could go on.

Deidre felt for Crowley. He'd come to visit, to escape the whispers and expectant stares. He sat at the table, arms crossed, eyes shielded as always. She gave him some cocoa, which he nursed in the same way that Adam did, when he had the sniffles and was in desperate need of a hug. She wasn't sure Crowley would thank her for that, though. She lay a hand on his arm instead.

"Trouble in paradise, is it?" she asked gently.

He gave a humourless laugh. "Something like that," he said, sipping his drink. He stared down at it for a moment. "Deidre, if... if you knew... you know what, nevermind. Forget I said anything."

She sat in the chair beside him. "No, go on," she said. She folded her hands in her lap patiently. "Nothing will go beyond these walls, Master Crowley, I swear it."

He rubbed the back of his neck, and heaved a deep breath. "If you had — if you knew something, like... like a really, really dark secret..." he said slowly. "Would you tell your husband?"

She sat back, hiding her surprise in case it looked like judgement. "Would it hurt him if I didn't?"

He chewed his lip. "I don't know," he said, hardly daring to put his breath behind the words.

She thought back to the way Uriel had threatened her in the street. Was that what Crowley was afraid of, or was this secret the reason she’d been tracking him? She took a deep breath. This conversation made the problems she'd coached Adam through look positively small and fluffy. She wasn't just trying to help her son with his friends this time; she was speaking to the Master (and likely future king), about a secret pertaining to the Queen himself. She was daunted for a moment. Only a moment, mind.

"Honesty is usually the best policy, you know... but I know it's not always that simple," she said, drawing a short nod from Crowley. "You're his husband, Crowley. After six thousand years of waiting for the right person, it was you he chose. Whatever this is, whatever you did, if you're open with him... He'll look past it."

He shook his head, looking away. "Don't think so," he said tightly. "Unforgivable, that's what I am."

"That's not for you to decide," she said, with a hint of sternness. He tried to ignore it, taking a long draught of his cocoa. "You could tell me, if you like. It might help to get it off your chest. Maybe you'll realise it isn't so bad after all."

"Thanks for the cocoa, Deidre," he said, pushing the cup away and standing from the table. She sighed lightly. He'd given his answer. "Same time next week."

"See you then," she said, letting him go. Communication wasn't his strong suit. She put it down to thousands of years of living in isolation, and tried not to blame him. He'd talk when he was ready, and she'd be there to listen when he was.

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Gabriel had had spies in the Pine Realm for centuries. They were his informants, kept happy by a stream of cash, and always ready to assist. He felt quite pleased with himself. They were silent, unseen, effective... If only Aziraphale took a blind bit of notice when Gabriel tried to advise him on foreign policy, they would've been indispensable. As it stood, they simply remained untapped potential. That was probably for the best, really. Sergeant Shadwell wasn't exactly everything Gabriel so readily assumed.

For a start, his 'intel' would crumble like a house of cards if it had ever been put to the test in the political arena. This was mostly because it was complete horse-shit. Whenever his wealthy Seelie benefactor got in touch demanding results, he'd spin a yarn about how his brave Private Milkbottle (fictional, unless you count the bottle Shadwell broke that morning) had given his life to smuggle back this remarkable intelligence (blatant misinformation from an Unseelie tabloid)... It always kept him happy. Nothing ever came of it, and Shadwell had a pretty penny more than he ever had. It was a win-win.

Until Gabriel showed up at his door, of course. He arrived on a storm-ridden night, par for the course in a Winter realm, when the hailstones threatened to punch through the poorly thatched roof of Shadwell's hut. He lived far from the main city, outcasted by his own people, left scrabbling for coins where he could find them. Gabriel shouldered his way inside, soaked to the skin. His cloak hadn't been made to withstand rain. It simply didn't exist, back at home. He shrugged it off, choking on the fumes from the hearth, while Shadwell slammed the door.

"Ah, Mister Gabriel, sir! Ye didn't, eh, didn't mention a visit in yer last letter," he said, patting the wad of paper kept in place by a dagger, spearing them to the woodworm-infested mantle. A bright red cockerel’s crest sat on his head, complete with russet feathers poking out from under his shirt collar. 

Gabriel cast an eye distastefully around the cramped, dark space, littered with occult trinkets and grains of sugar on the ground. There was an ants' nest in the crawling shadows in the corner. "Believe me, I didn't plan on coming," he said, picking his cloak back up, thinking better than to leave it on the chair. It was already slightly sticky. "I have work for you. It requires courage, wit, and no small degree of experience."

Shadwell straightened up, which was really just a slightly taller slouch. "Ah. Well then I'm yer man," he said. The chattering of hail on the cloudy windows sounded almost like mocking laughter.

"You'd better be. The enemy is clever," he said, stepping over a pile of rags which almost looked like it was breathing. "And dangerous."

Shadwell gulped. He faced the fire, as if warming his hands. "Eh... uh... how dangerous are we talkin', laddie?"

"You will face the Dullahan himself."

"Bleedin' blue blazes, ye Seelie pansy!" he cried, whipping around, eyes wide. "Suicide, that's what yer askin'! Ha! I'm no fool, laddie. Find some other madman for this job."

Gabriel took a large bag from his pocket, tossing it hard onto the table. Shadwell's ears pricked up as he heard the thump of coins on wood, packed too closely together that they hardly clinked. "Half your payment, in pure Seelie gold," he said. "Enough to rebuild this hovel a thousand times over. Do I have your attention?"

Shadwell edged forward, and snatched the bag. He peered inside, his breath stolen by the glow of the coins. "Aye."

"Good," he said, stepping closer and dropping his voice so low it was nearly drowned out by the whistling gale. "Tell me... How would you go about confronting a shapeshifter?"

Crowley had hoped Deidre might help, but with hindsight, he didn't know what he'd wanted her to say. Advice didn't change his dilemma. At least it was quiet as he wandered through the city and into the gardens. All the guards were on-duty on the perimeter, with the exception of a few elite soldiers who had been stationed within the palace in case of an emergency. They tended to hang around Aziraphale, though.

He found himself opening the wrought-metal gate to the private royal garden. It was a nice space, concealed, private... He should've come here to start with. The gate was unlocked, and Aziraphale hadn't ventured outside since the first sighting. Crowley stared at the smooth, warm rocks by the pond for a long time before admitting defeat.

"Just ten minutes," he muttered to himself, lying back against the rocks. It would be easy enough to explain if he was caught; cats liked sunbathing, too. Aziraphale might even find it endearing. It didn't take long before the heat of the sun and the stone lulled Crowley to sleep, relaxing his muscles and his mind. As the tension unfurled, so did something else, something that was still very much awake after such a recent shed. While he lay sound asleep, Crowley's skin began to turn dark and rough, his legs fusing together, and his eyelids receding to reveal his unrelenting, vacant yellow stare. Soon, nothing remained but the draconic monster which had crawled in from the northern forests, snoozing in the sun.

Aziraphale liked his guards, he really did, but if that woman by the door tapped her foot one more time then he was going to smite her. That was without even mentioning her colleague, who had a nasty habit of clicking his tongue before every sentence. Aziraphale endeavoured not to judge, but when they were infringing upon his time to himself, he began to get antsy. He only wanted some peace and quiet.

The guard raised her foot for that final fatal tap, and Aziraphale abruptly stood from his desk. "I'm going to pop out for a bit," he said, snatching a book from the desk. "Won't be a tick."

The guard looked up in surprise. "Sire, I don't believe it would be wise to go alone."

He tutted. "I'm going to the private garden. It's a royal sanctum, right at the heart of the estate, at the foot of my sacred tree," he said dismissively. "I will be perfectly safe there, I'm certain of it."

The guards reluctantly stood down, inclining their heads respectfully as he passed. He let out a sigh of relief. With the comforting weight of a good book in his hands, he wove through the palace halls and finally emerged into the sun. There were more guards by the door, who were surprised to see their Queen outside again so soon. He trotted down the stairs, and they didn't stop him. They'd seen no movement out here since they began their shift, not even a mouse.

Aziraphale turned, walking down the root-enclosed corridor toward his garden. The path was winding, hiding the gate from view. He knew the kinks in the path like the back of his hand, so he looked down, studying the cover of his book. He hadn't actually looked when he'd picked it up. It was one he'd read before, but it had been so long since he'd last picked it up, it would make for a nice nostalgic afternoon. He lay a hand on the gate, still looking down at the blurb, and pushed. The metal juddered as it hit something, stopping it in its tracks. A sharp hiss split the air. 

Aziraphale looked up, and the world stopped turning. Black scales dominated his sanctuary, winding back and forth across the lawn in a grotesque imitation of the surrounding tree-roots. The snake began to move. It tasted something on the air, sweet and familiar... Sunlight rippled over its form; it lifted its enormous head, rising high as if drawn by a snake-charmer, revealing its true enormity as it towered over the gate, silhouetted from behind like a great black phantom. The Queen stood far below, trembling like a little white mouse. The serpent was far larger, far more terrible, than its shed-skin had promised, and here it was: the Queen’s personal omen of death, invading his most precious sanctuary. A tear rolled down Aziraphale's face. The book slipped from his hands, landing hard on the ground.

The world snapped back to life. A scream wrenched itself from Aziraphale's throat. He bolted back down the path, leaving the acrid tang of fear on Crowley's tongue. A strangled hiss escaped his throat, barely cognisant of his snake-form as his husband fled, and Crowley followed. Nothing but instinct spurred him on. That was his angel, his beloved mate. He was scared; he needed protection. His dumb animal brain couldn't quite accept that it was him he was afraid of.

Aziraphale burst free from the roots, crashing into a metal chestplate. Pain exploded in his face. He shoved the guard aside, thoughtlessly sending him sprawling to the ground as he bolted past. He couldn’t stop. He could hear it behind him, crushing the metal gate like dry bracken, the rasp of its scales almost as chilling as the hissing that followed. The guards shouted. Metal clanked and arrows whistled. He made right for the doors. His heart hammered, threatened to break his ribs itself if he didn’t escape that monster. Tears streamed down his face, burning, stinging, blinding...

Crowley reeled backwards as an arrow whizzed past his head. Another followed, glancing off him. Pain flared up with the impact, though it didn't draw blood. Two small figures circled him, unable to stay out of striking distance. What — ? Why were they attacking him? Now was not the time! How _dare_ they stand between him and his angel when he needed his help. Enraged, he spread his jaws, baring his fangs at the attackers. A hiss built in his throat, flooding his mouth until it spilt over and sent a jet of fire lancing groundward. The earth shook, scattering soil and guards alike. They fell, stunned, on the ground. Even Crowley was shocked.

 _Well. That's new,_ he thought, stunned, as the shockwave brought him back to his senses. What was he doing? He was a snake, out in the open! His stomach dropped, sending bolts of fear all the way down his body. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye, and he looked just in time to catch the palace doors close behind a set of white coat-tails. His heart lurched as the gravity of the situation finally hit him. No, no... This was wrong, it was all wrong!

He twisted, hitting the ground and fleeing as fast as his tail would carry him. He slithered over the rise and into the nearby hedge-maze, guiltily leaving the singed guards lying semi-conscious behind him. He wove between the conifer-walls until his whole body was twisted around in the maze before finally transforming back, painfully fast, and collapsing onto the dusty earth, gasping, his ribcage bruised where the arrows had glanced off. He was lucky they didn’t hit. He bit his lip, biting back his emotions, as he stood. He had to find Aziraphale. He had to make sure he was okay after such a... well, a brush with death, from his perspective. Crowley trembled with guilt. He could be there for him in the aftermath, but he feared the damage was done.


	28. Sire

Aziraphale's whole body shivered uncontrollably. He'd fled to his room, locked the door and refused to let anyone in. The whole door was barbed, floor to ceiling, with foot-long thorns, and they had begun to spread down onto the stairs too. He could hardly think. The tears still flowed, and he'd been sick in the bathroom once already. He expected a shooting pain at any moment, fearing the serpent would damage the tree, but none came. He took shallow, ragged breaths. Crowley was wrong. The serpent hadn't fled; it was here, and now it had seen him. It had his scent. How long had it lain in the garden, undiscovered, before he'd wandered in? Perhaps it was trying to nest there. A fresh shudder ran through him as he imagined a clutch of snake eggs among the roots of his tree, just waiting to hatch and swarm the realm with more of those writhing serpents. 

That thought brought something else into his mind. He was close to death, he was sure, and yet still heirless. If he died, the Queendom would collapse. Crops would fail, rivers would run dry, extreme weather would ravage the city and his people would be left homeless and destitute. No Queen would accept that many thousands and thousands of refugees at once. Even the travelling market would be overburdened by those numbers. No one could stretch their resources enough to be able to save the entire population of a vast and ancient fallen Queendom. Thousands would die. He sobbed into his pillow, but his tears had run dry. It may already be too late to save them. He'd failed them as their Queen. 

He wiped his eyes, pushing himself up. What if... what if he hadn't, not yet? Twice the serpent had been spotted, and now it failed to harm him. He'd made a lucky escape, and maybe it would buy him time. That was what he needed: time. If he could carry a baby to term before his death, the Queendom would be saved. The tree would accept the infant heir, share their life-force as its own, and one day they would grow to rule. Crowley could rule as regent in the meantime.

Aziraphale sniffled, leaning against the headboard. He'd always been too slow, hadn't he? If he'd just confessed to Crowley sooner, not waited for Agnes to tell him so, maybe... maybe he could have seen a little of his child's life before he had to leave them. He'd wasted so much time dreaming of having a family that now, he wouldn't live to see it for himself. His face crumpled. How could he have done this to Crowley? He was about to ask the world of him, and then leave the weight of it on his shoulders. He'd raise their child alone. He'd have to make a Queen of them, and condemn them to the same life Aziraphale had led: a sole leader from birth, with no choice to be anything but. He swallowed thickly, wondering if this is what Agnes had meant, when she'd told him that Crowley would be king. _Him, and him only;_ ruling alone, without Aziraphale by his side, until their child was old enough to take up the mantle of Queen. 

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what his baby might look like, as they grew. He'd never get to see it. He envisioned a child with blue eyes, like his own, and curly red hair... though perhaps it would be more merciful if the child was a mirror image of Crowley. How eerie it would be, if they resembled Aziraphale, like his ghost still walking the halls. It would torture Crowley beyond measure. He lay on his bed and, despite himself, began to relax. Fatigue and grief weighed him down, dragging him into sleep like a stone vanishing beneath the surface of a dark, unsettled lake. 

The realm was in chaos. Stories were spreading of the enormity of the serpent, tidbits of information from the two guards who'd bravely faced down the monster. Effigies of the black-and-red snake were made and torn apart by guards and citizens alike, training, preparing. Very few cowered from the idea of fighting the serpent head-on. Yes, they may die, but if it reached the Queen then they'd perish for certain. Better to take a stand. 

The Queen himself hadn't shown his face for days. A flower had fallen from the tree, the day the serpent had been found in the gardens, but Duke Gabriel gave an address assuring everyone that it was just shock. Aziraphale himself was unharmed. As the days wore on, it seemed to be proven true. No more petals fell. Still, the city refused to settle. The tavern-going servants were their best source of news, free from the political filter. Apparently, Queen Aziraphale hardly saw anyone but his closest advisers anymore, and they passed his orders on to the rest of the court. He spent most of his time locked in his study with a whole unit of guards prowling the halls outside, and his husband watching over him inside the room. Many people pinned their hopes on Crowley for the future, one way or another. Either he would sire the next queen, and quickly, or he would slay the serpent. If anyone could defy death itself, it was the great and terrible Dullahan. 

Michael watched the tree carefully, fearful that more flowers would fall. Only the four dukes had seen the state their Queen was in, and they all knew that this was not just shock. He was distraught. He daren't appear before the court this way, with bloodshot eyes and dark shadows on his face... Crowley seemed to be bolstering him, as far as Michael could tell. He still didn't like him, but if he could help them weather the storm, then so be it. Aziraphale's life was worth more to him than a political rivalry; he just worried that Gabriel wasn't thinking so clearly. 

He'd noticed things. The other three dukes were often murmuring furtively to one another, and Michael had been involved with enough of their schemes to notice when they slipped notes between themselves at court. Something was going on. If Aziraphale uncovered a plot in the middle of a crisis, it would do more harm than good, that much he knew. He caught Uriel's arm before she had a chance to leave.

"Don't think I haven't noticed what you three are doing," he said, and caught a flash of trepidation in her eyes. "Now is not the time, Uriel. Surely you can see that."

"We act for the good of the Queendom," she said, snatching back her hand, glancing around in case anyone saw. "As we always have."

"Then stand with your Queen," he said firmly. 

"We are," she replied, and swept past him. Michael turned, watching her go. His stomach churned. He'd hoped Uriel might be the one to let something slip, to give him a hint that he could use to chip away at the plot camouflaged among the confusion of government. She'd given him nothing, not even a scrap... Gabriel must be insisting on secrecy, trying to freeze Michael out. He sighed. 

He daren't worry Aziraphale with his suspicions. His state of mind was fragile, and the slightest bump could send petals tumbling down at any moment. No one else had the influence to help him; his equals were against him, and the lower-ranking nobles would rather bow to three dukes than to the one who went against them, especially in the absence of the Queen. There was only one person higher than Gabriel, and that was Aziraphale himself. 

Michael's eyes drifted to the king's crown, sitting on its pedestal beside the empty throne. On second thought, there _was_ someone who had the potential to wield more power than Gabriel. Crowley could stand against him. The court would rally around him, desperate to endear themselves to the future king and father of the next sovereign. Michael turned sharply away from the idea, and left the throne room. No. If he allied himself with Crowley, he'd have no choice but to accept him as a permanent addition to the palace. He just couldn't do it. He'd worked for too long to preserve the Queendom to see it tainted that way. 

Whatever Gabriel was doing, it wouldn't harm Aziraphale. He needed him alive if he still lusted so much for the crown. Michael knew that for certain, and, well... sometimes, it was better to trust the devil you know. 

Guilt weighed on Crowley with every passing second. This was all his fault. Aziraphale was having nightmares, sometimes several times a night, and Crowley had to be the one to calm him down. He had to hold him to his chest in the dark, and tell him that it was okay, it was all a dream... that the serpent wasn't coming to get him. He wished it was as easy as turning tail and running away, and letting everything in the realm go back to how it had been before, but he was in too deep. He'd become Aziraphale's greatest enemy, and his closest ally. If only he hadn't nodded off on that warm stone, everything could have been different. He could have made him believe the serpent had fled for good. 

He lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of Aziraphale rustling around in the bathroom. He felt safe in their room, at least; in the serpent's nest. He thought it was too high up for anything to get in, bar through the spiral staircase, which was heavily guarded at all hours. This was the only time of day things felt normal. Aziraphale would get ready for bed, and for a few precious moments, he'd relax in Crowley's arms before he drifted off. Sometimes he read a book before he slept. It was a simple, domestic comfort, something which had been a crutch for them both since the disaster in the garden. 

For Aziraphale, it was also a time to build his courage. He needed an heir, and his time was short. He gave himself a few evenings of that simple comfort to reassure himself that Crowley was safe, and trustworthy, and gentle. None of those words were compliments he'd accept, but that's what Aziraphale thought of him. That's what he needed from him. 

He took extra care in the bathroom that evening, pretending like he wasn't just procrastinating. He didn't want to demand a baby from Crowley, apropos of nothing, so he reasoned that perhaps a little seduction would be in order, on his part. It couldn't be that hard. He'd read books, after all, and... and songs mentioned it sometimes. It was just a matter of tempting him in. In the bath, he used the soaps he knew Crowley liked, along with some calming candles on the edge of the tub to soothe his own frayed nerves. He took deep breaths. It was okay. This was his husband, and he loved him. It was all going to be fine. 

He applied some cologne, the old faithful one he'd once caught Crowley borrowing when he'd thought Aziraphale was busy. Once his hair was dry, he slipped on his fluffy white dressing-gown, and looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't quite sure what Crowley would make of him. He was naked beneath the robe, and that would certainly be a shock to him. Aziraphale had always used the screen to change behind, so this was... new. 

Feeling a little sick but trying to ignore it, he eased open the bathroom door. Crowley lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head. "Ready for bed yet, angel?" he asked, eyes shut. Aziraphale's heart gave a nauseating lurch. 

"Um... well..." he said, feeling like he should have some clever flirt prepared. Abandoning his attempt to speak, he slid onto the bed beside him, and the dip in the mattress finally made Crowley open his eyes. He gave a start of surprise.

"Uh," he said, his yellow eyes wide as they flicked up and down his body. He quickly averted them. "Sorry. Didn't realise you weren't dressed. D'you forget to take your pyjamas into the bathroom?"

"No," he said quietly. He leaned over him, pressing their lips together before he could say another word. He felt a muffled grunt of surprise against his mouth before he reciprocated. Aziraphale moved closer, flush against him, deepening the kiss. Crowley's sensitive nose picked up a bouquet of scents, an attractive musk rolling off Aziraphale with every movement. He groaned in pleasure. He didn't realise he was moving his hand until it brushed the soft fabric covering Aziraphale's hips. He snatched it back, remembering how little he was wearing. Aziraphale caught his hand. Carefully, be guided him back over his hip and further down, slipping beneath the robe where it rested on his thigh...

Crowley broke the kiss, his arm going rigid, refusing to budge any further up Aziraphale's bare leg. "What are you doing?"

Aziraphale flinched. "I'm... erm... asking," he said, cursing himself for sounding so timid. 

"For...?" he prompted. He knew the answer already and, if Crowley had been a lesser man, he might have just ploughed on and taken it.

"I thought it was fairly obvious," he said, looking away for a moment. He swallowed thickly. "Am I... Am I doing it... wrong?"

"Wh — n — not wrong, angel," he said, bringing his hand back up to the safety of his waist. He sat up, looking him in the eye. "I just don’t understand. First you said you wanted to take your time, then what, all of a sudden you're ready for sex?" 

He squirmed slightly, burning with too many emotions to possibly understand. "So what if I am?"

"But you're not," he said. He wasn't about to back down, but his gaze softened, and Aziraphale felt inexplicably guilty for trying to spring this on him so suddenly. "I'm not stupid. Something's wrong, angel. Just talk to me."

He curled in on himself, feeling suddenly bare and slightly ridiculous. He was just glad Crowley wasn't mocking him, or spurning him altogether. "I... I can't..." he began, choking up. Crowley reached across to take his hand, giving it a patient squeeze. "I can't die without... without having a..."

Horror flashed in Crowley's eyes as he realised what he meant. "No, angel, no, no, no," he said, reaching out to hug him, but thinking better of it, while he was still only in a robe. He gripped his shoulders instead. "You're not ready for that. You're scared. It's not the same thing."

"But — But it's not about _me_ , Crowley! Don't you see?" he cried, his eyes wet with tears. "Thousands of lives are at stake, and — and even if I never get to see my baby grow up, I could at least die peacefully, knowing I'd left something behind."

"Angel — "

"And you'd make such a wonderful father. It's too much to ask, I know, but lord knows I would never trust anyone to raise them but you," he continued, his words spilling breathlessly out without any sign of stopping. "You'd raise them to be twice the Queen I was, I know it, and — "

"Make me."

Aziraphale stopped dead. "What?"

Crowley stared at him with a grim expression. "You have my name. You could make me," he said, all trace of softness in his voice lost. 

He shook his head fervently. "No!" he cried, wriggling backwards, repulsed by the very suggestion. "That's — What you're suggesting — it's _evil._ Out of the question, I would never!"

"Then you understand why I can't do this to you either, angel," he said, settling again into that somber, gentler mood. "Not before you're ready. Not for the whole Queendom."

Aziraphale's jaw worked up and down, searching for words yet only coming up with tears. His throat tightened. "I... I'm so sorry," he whispered, trembling with remorse. He understood. Crowley really was safe, and trustworthy, and gentle, just like he'd been telling himself. It just meant something different than what he’d thought. _This_ was what Aziraphale needed; someone to protect him, even from himself. "P — Please, forgive me..."

"There's nothing to forgive, angel. You’re... You were trying to do the right thing. I get it," he said, rubbing comforting circles on his shoulders. "I'll get you those soft pyjamas you like, and we’ll just lie here for a while and relax, yeah?”

"And... and the serpent, what if...?" he began, hating himself for even pushing the issue, but he couldn't just pretend it wasn't there. 

Crowley paused before he got up off the bed. "It won't hurt you, angel — or I’m not the Dullahan," he said with a sense of solid, absolute finality... and Aziraphale believed him. 

A stooped figure approached the city gate. His hood sat low on his brow, shielding his eyes from the sight of the vast tree keeping watch over the sprawling metropolis below. The white petals gleamed under the moonlight. It was the only beacon of light in the darkness, now the sun had settled under the horizon. The figure took one step toward the arch leading into the city, when the guard called him to a sharp halt. 

"The gates are closed. No free movement into the citadel," she said, coming down the steps. She hesitated for a moment, suspicious. The stranger didn't lift his head. She lay a hand on her sword. "What's your business here?"

His mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. He reached into his pocket. She flinched, gripping her sword. He produced a sheet of parchment, brandishing it proudly. "Fetch yer captain, lassie," he said with a yellow smile. A purple wax seal caught the moonlight, and the guard stepped back, perturbed. "Official business."

For the first time in days, Aziraphale slept soundly through the night. He woke up in Crowley's arms, safe, and in no hurry to go anywhere. He snuggled closer, glad of the warmth. "Morning, angel," Crowley mumbled into his hair. "Sleep well?"

"Like a log," he said with a groggy smile. "I am so very grateful for your company, dear. I dread to think what a tizzy I'd be in without you."

"S'alright," he said, still unsure what to do with such genuine praise. One of these days, he'd figure that out. He tightened his grip on Aziraphale, trying to tell him that he loved him without mentioning it out loud. Aziraphale gave a small hum of contentment, so perhaps he got the message. 

Someone knocked on the door. Aziraphale lifted his head to glare at the it. "I'm afraid we are most decidedly _busy!"_ he snapped. Crowley almost made a lewd joke, but decided against it; best not to go there after their conversation last night. "You will just have to wait."

"It's — erm — Sorry, sire, it's not me, it's Duke Sandalphon," called the poor guard who'd been sent upstairs to disturb the royal couple. "He's asking to see Master Crowley. He says it's urgent."

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at one another, bemused. Crowley shrugged helplessly. "It's a new one on me, angel," he said. He snapped his fingers, changing into his day clothes. "I'll just go see what he wants."

Aziraphale whined, grabbing his sleeve. "Oh, don't go. Just ignore him," he said as Crowley began to move. "Stay in bed with me."

He laughed, flicking his hand. "Geroff. It's probably just the court playing up again," he said, leaning over to give him a light peck on the lips. "I'll only be five minutes."

"You'd better," he said, pouting, snuggling into the pillow. "I was having such a lovely morning."

"Guilt trips won't work, angel," he said, making for the door. "I'll bring you some breakfast when I get back, how's that? Peace offering."

He brightened up at that. "Ah! Offering accepted," he said, then waved his hand. "Go on then, off you pop. The quicker you go, the quicker you can bring back something scrumptious."

Crowley rolled his eyes fondly, and stepped out the door. This wouldn't take long. He’d rather sort out whatever petty court drama was going on himself rather than bother Aziraphale with it. He had enough on his mind. He emerged from the spiral staircase, finding the duke at the bottom. He arched a brow at him. "What?" he said bluntly. 

"Master Crowley," he said with a greasy smile. "There's a disturbance in the town square which I believe it would be prudent of you to look into."

"Me? What's it got to do with me?" he said, wrinkling his nose. "Just send a few guards in. They'll sort it."

"The source of the commotion is... Unseelie," he said, trying very hard not to show his distaste. He failed. "As the only other Unseelie fae in the Queendom, I thought you would be best placed to handle it. Perhaps it might help your reputation with the people."

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you care about my reputation?" 

Sandalphon glanced over his shoulder, almost theatrically checking for eavesdroppers. "Gabriel's power is waning, sir. Many of us are starting to look towards a more powerful ally," he said, staring pointedly at him. Crowley winced. 

"Don't go getting too many ideas in your head. I'm not king yet," he said uneasily, brushing past him. He may as well take a look at what was going on out there. Aziraphale's people weren't as tolerant of the Unseelie as their Queen, and he'd hate for some poor bugger to get speared just for being drunk in public. 

He left the palace, and hurried down the main road. People were surprised to see him there, and he avoided their worried stares. They clearly thought he should be inside, with Aziraphale. He glanced over his shoulder at the balcony; the doors were closed, and no doubt his husband had drifted off to sleep again. He'd been so tired recently. He deserved a good rest, at long last; maybe the worst was behind them now.

A new sound reached his ears as he approached the town square. Crowds had begun to gather there, surrounding the figure stood at the foot of the monument at its centre. Crowley let out a sharp whistle. "Oi! What's all this about?" he shouted. People whirled around, tripping over themselves to get out of his way. 

"He's here! It's Master Crowley!" someone cried. A ripple of shock went through the assembled people. Perturbed, Crowley walked between them, glancing back and forth. He turned his gaze on the man at the heart of the square; he was an old, feathered Unseelie fae with a red crest. 

"Aha! Here he is, the wee sneaky devil!" he cried, jabbing a finger triumphantly. Crowley frowned. "Did'ya nae believe me, when I told ye he'd come? This nancy's done nowt but lie to ye!"

The crowd muttered amongst itself, but didn't move. They looked to Crowley. He ran his tongue nervously over his teeth, and crossed his arms. "Look, just come down from there, and I'll get you a bed in the infirmary where you can sober up," he called. A few onlookers snickered, sharing Crowley's disdain. "Don't make me call the guards."

"Bah! Ye cannae threaten me wi' sword an' spear, coward!" he said, dancing on the monument steps like they were covered in hot coals. Crowley was starting to hope he'd trip and knock himself out on the cobbles. "This is yer last chance, beastie. Tell 'em who y'are."

His face twitched. A thousand eyes were resting on him, watching him from every angle. Crowley raised his chin. "I'm the Dullahan, and their Queen's husband," he said defiantly. Whatever this was, if he held his ground, he'd be fine. No one would take the word of a stranger above the word of the future king. Shadwell gave a broad, nasty grin. 

"Aye," he said, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a heavily inscribed ebony talisman, humming with Unseelie magic. Crowley blanched. "All that and more, eh, _shapeshifter?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo, these cliffhangers are starting to get really mean now, aren’t they? I’m looking forward to reading the comments on this chapter


	29. Love Thy Enemy

"Shapeshifter?" someone murmured. The crowd grew restless, drawing away from the Unseelie fae and the talisman swinging from his fist. "What...?"

Crowley watched the pendant, hypnotised by it for a moment. He knew those runes. Symbols of revealing, of truth, of transformation... He backed away, heart pounding, assaulted on every side by astounded gasps as he retreated from the stranger. No one was blind to the terror on his face. Parents snatched their children from the ground, fleeing the scene, and the bolder onlookers picked up stones and nearby tools in readiness. Whatever was happening, it was enough to frighten the Dullahan.

"No.... no," Crowley breathed as Shadwell dropped his chin to his chest and began to murmur the spell. He turned heel, and broke into a sprint. If he could get away, get back to the palace — 

Something grabbed his leg. Gravity wrenched him down onto the cobbles, sending bolts of pain through his skull as his chin hit the stone. Someone screamed. Barely cognisant, he felt something tightening its grip, dragging him back down the street. He stared blankly at the tree, far away, growing further out of reach. His throat tightened. _I'm not going back, am I?_

He shook his head, clearing it slightly. What was he thinking? He twisted around, seeing the tendrils of dark magic ensnaring his legs, dragging him back to the square. The people hurled stones at Shadwell, still stood beneath the monument, to no effect. They bounced uselessly off the shadowy aura surrounding him. Crowley writhed, clawing at the magic entrapping him, still almost delirious in pain and panic. His snake form was awakening, drawn out, leaning heavily on the seams of his human form. It was happening too fast. He shouted, gritting his teeth, desperately throwing his weight down on the trapdoor keeping the transformation at bay. 

Suddenly, the tendrils wrenched him up into the air, tossing him town at the foot of the statue. His sunglasses clattered to the ground. The magic cocooned him, spreading every instant further up his body, pinning his arms and threatening to creep up his throat. They spread deeper, too. They needled beneath his skin, relentlessly searching for the thread they needed to snap. Veins bulged in Crowley's throat. He had to fight it.

Shadwell leered. "Go on, laddie. Give in," he said. The throng of people were in chaos, screaming for guards, but they had all been stationed on the perimeter walls, leaving none close at hand. Crowley was deaf to the cacophony. All he knew was the whispering, insidious voices in his head... _Do it. Destroy him. Make him pay. You know can do it. Just make it happen. Make it real._

Yellow overtook his sclera. His spine popped. For a beat, everything fell deadly silent, and the mob looked on in horror as Crowley began to change. Fangs protruded between his lips, which were quickly fading as scales advanced over his jaw. His throat turned bloody red with plate scales as it widened to match the width of his shoulders, and didn't stop. A hateful shriek poisoned the air. His muscles swelled beneath his skin, flexing and writhing furiously with the painful transformation. Every thrash of his growing form kicked up dust and grit, throwing up a smokescreen that mingled with the thick black vapour of the Unseelie magic. No one could see clearly. Cries rang out across the square. The tawny air hung like a curtain over them, blocking the light and concealing the source of the slow, spiteful hiss building from the heart of the dust-cloud. 

"What... have you _done?"_ Crowley's distraught voice reverberated through the blinded, coughing crowd. Shadwell grimaced, glancing back and forth across the square, unable to see more than two feet in any direction. The dust refused to settle. His heart pounded as a steady, slithering noise grew louder, all around him. "Where are you?"

Shadwell took a step back, and hit the statue behind him. The noise echoed loudly. He took a sharp breath. The dust swam, stirred by the sharp turn of an enormous head; two burning yellow eyes pierced the murk. A fierce orange glow flickered, muffled but growing, just beneath. "You... _bassssstard!"_ he bellowed, blowing a jet of fire with the same breath. 

Shadwell threw himself down. Flames scorched his crest, missing him by a hair. The ground shuddered as the blast hit the monument, crumbling the stone, scattering rubble over the plaza. Air rushed around him, sweeping the dust away. Crowley's vast, sinuous form dominated the square, raising his head high above the people with fire still smouldering in the back of his throat, licking the edges of his mouth, raring to be set loose. He breathed heavily, rage buzzing in his mind above all else. Fae scattered, screaming, falling to the ground in their hysteria only to be pulled along by another escapee. Crowley’s eyes were fixed on Shadwell. 

"Happy now? Is thisss what you wanted?" he said, baring his fangs as he lowered his head toward the old man. He trembled on the stone. The heat of Crowley’s breath bore down like a ton weight, pinning him. "You — "

A rock smacked against Crowley’s nose. He jumped, looking up in surprise, his slitted eyes landing on a spindly boy stood on the rubble. Ruins lay strewn around. He’d barely noticed the statue before but, now he’d destroyed it, it was the only thing he could see. A familiar manicured hand, hewn from stone, by his tail-tip... A beaming smile, with a crack running down the middle, beside a burning cart. He knew that face. Even in stone, crumbled and scorched, he loved that face. It was Aziraphale, lying broken on the road. He slithered backward, hissing. It was an accident! He hadn't meant to do it — it didn't mean anything, it couldn't! Another rock struck his head. A torch spun through the air; he barely dodged it. More rocks hailed down on him as others joined in. He twisted this way and that, battered on every side. 

"Ssstop it!" he yelled, coiling in on himself. It did nothing. Angry shouts brought more people to the square, spreading his secret, holding it up to the cold light of day. Metal clattered. He didn't look up in time to see the first arrow fly, but he felt it strike true. The guards had arrived. He screeched in pain. More followed, pelting him with arrows, piercing his scales with the tremendous force of their longbows. In desperation, he struck. He launched himself at the nearest soldier, his jaws snapping loudly just short of her nose. She swung her dagger, slicing a long wound down his snout. 

He reeled backwards. Nothing stopped. Stones and arrows pelted him relentlessly as people screamed in pain and anger. The air, thick with smoke, adrenaline and blood, burned his eyes. He spun, glimpsing the Blossom Tree as he turned. With a cry, he lurched forward. That was the answer. He only wanted a home; he slithered desperately toward it, longing for the safety of his nest, for Aziraphale, for — 

"He's going for the Queen!" the captain shrieked. _"Kill him!"_

A wall of guards threw themselves into his path. He hissed, sliding to a halt. They struck out fearlessly, one landing a lucky blow between his scales and driving his sword deep into his belly. Crowley wailed, retreating. Pain burnt along every nerve. Blood ran down his scales in rivulets, turning the dirt to mud, scattering like rain as he squirmed desperately over the ruined statue, away from the palace. He couldn't stay here. Hateful faces surrounded him on every side, baying for blood. Their shouts battered him like stones. He threw himself to the ground, sweeping them aside with his head and slithering with all his strength through the path he'd cleared. They stabbed and scratched at his tail even as he fled. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him moving, calling him to escape. The city gate was ahead. They'd dropped the portcullis, and stood waiting with their weapons drawn. It was impassible. 

With a heave of effort to lift the talisman’s power, Crowley drew back within himself, stumbling to the ground for a moment as his legs failed him. It happened in an instant. He glanced over his shoulder at the advancing mob, and forced himself to his feet with a shout of exertion. Arrows clattered to the ground as he ran, dislodged by the transformation. Some held fast. His vision blurred as he approached the wall, scrunching up his face as he jumped at it feet-first. 

His feet skidded, his magic struggling to grip. He strained, pain blossoming in his head, and managed to grip the vertical surface. He half-crawled up the wall, gripping with his shaking hands while his feet intermittently slipped and scattered grit onto the gathering pack of angry fae below. With the lip of the wall in sight, he risked a glance down. They bellowed and cursed him: _Traitor! How could you? We trusted you!_ They still hurled things at him, whatever they could find, but few hit. With a desperate cry, he dragged himself over the top of the wall, sprinted to the other side, and flung himself from the edge. For a second, he was in free-fall. In that instant, pain burning every nerve and air rushing through him, he re-lived his first memory of life.

His wings unfurled, slowing his descent. He flapped them weakly, unable to catch an updraft, and slammed into the grassy slope below. The impact jolted a sob from him. He lay there for barely a moment, trembling, when an arrow speared the ground an inch from his face. He sat up with a cry. Every movement agitated his wounds; his clothes were heavy with blood as he scrambled to his feet, sprinting unsteadily into the woods. The portcullis rattled behind him. They were giving chase. 

His breath dragged like sandpaper through his throat. Every jolt was agony, and every thump of his heart sent more blood flowing down his skin. He weaved through the trees, slamming into the trunks as he lost his footing, gasping for breath. His legs were ready to buckle. Fae-hounds bayed in the woods. He leaned on an oak, his face streaming with tears he hadn't even noticed, listening to the shouts of the guards hunting him. He whimpered, gritting his teeth. He didn't have long. They'd catch him, unless he made it someplace they couldn't get to him. Somewhere... somewhere they couldn't follow... 

He dragged in a lungful of air, and lurched off in another direction. He knew these woods well enough by now. A shout assaulted him from the left. "I see him! He's going west!"

Crowley cursed. He put on a burst of speed, feeling the hounds crash through the undergrowth behind him, snapping their jaws. He drew upon what little magic he had left, spurring himself on. He couldn't outrun them. He turned, throwing down a sunburst of golden magic, sending the dogs flying backward into the trees with pained yelps. "Sorry!" he yelled, and forced himself onward. His goal was in sight. 

The trees cleared. A ring of mushrooms sat beneath an apple tree, shining like stars on the dusty ground. He glanced back. The guards burst through the cover, swords drawn, faces twisted in rage. Crowley tripped, hurled forward by his runaway momentum. Damp, cold earth slammed into his face. The sunlight vanished, replaced by the grey and cold light of the human world. He’d tripped right through the fairy ring.

He twisted with a frenzied cry and tore at the mushrooms, ripping them from the earth with shaking hands. He kicked and pulled at the ring until it was nothing more than a ruined mess of disturbed earth and white fungi, painted red where his blood dripped onto the cold ground. He panted, waiting... waiting for a spear to pierce the veil between worlds, and his skull along with it. Nothing came. With a pained moan, he finally collapsed. He'd destroyed the door. There was only one person who'd be able to fix it, and he prayed he wouldn't try. If Aziraphale ever saw him again, he'd be a dead man... and he might just deserve it. 

Aziraphale startled awake to the sound of screaming. He ran to the window, pressing his hands against the glass. He could just about make out a dustcloud rising over the houses at the centre of town, but not much else, not so far away. "Oh dear," he said fretfully, throwing off his pyjamas and dressing himself in record time. He was still buttoning his shirt as he ran down the stairs, his bow-tie forgotten by the bed, and emerged at the foot of the steps. 

He jogged past the guards, ignoring their cries. They trailed after him, trying to gently persuade him to return to his room, or his study, or one of his other safe havens. He paid them no mind. They daren't try to physically stop him, cringing as he flung open the throne room doors. The court were gathered inside. 

"What on earth is going on in the city?" he demanded, striding into the centre of them all. They drew back, giving him space, surprised to see him amongst them again. "Well? Doesn't anyone know? People are screaming!"

"There was a disturbance earlier, your majesty, by an Unseelie stranger. He was slandering the Master's name," Sandalphon piped up. "I tried to stop him, but Master Crowley insisted on handling it himself."

The two door-guards looked at one another sceptically. That wasn't what they'd overheard. Still, they'd been rigorously trained never to intervene with palace politics... They hesitated too long to speak up. "Crowley's down there?" Aziraphale cried, eyes widening. He spun around to face the soldiers. "Send a detachment down at once! Report back to me as soon as you find him."

The guards didn't obey immediately. "Your majesty, we were posted to guard you. We — "

"Need I remind you who's in charge here?" he snapped, a flash of cold fire in his eyes. 

"N - No, sire! At once, sire!" they cried, turning heel to dash out the door. 

He watched them go with a huff of annoyance. He pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling anxiously under his breath as he approached the throne. Gabriel watched from the crowd. Sandalphon had done well; now, all that was left to do was sit back and watch Crowley's body be dragged back through the streets. Aziraphale's so-called 'golden age' of the Dullahan had come to an abrupt end, and all the better, in his eyes. From the ashes of that short-lived time, something far greater would rise up to take its place. 

Warlock sat at the edge of town, looking over the bare stretch of ground leading to the woods. Tracy sat beside him, on a neighbour's fence. Mama told him he wasn't supposed to go up to the edge of the forest anymore, but he could look so long as he had someone with him. He felt comforted, when he saw the trees. Tracy understood that. She felt just the same, so out-of-place among the houses and fences of the town. She said she would gladly pass on her cottage to him, when she was done with it. He'd take up the mantle of 'village kook' and life would go on. He liked the sound of that. 

Something rustled at the forest's edge. Warlock sat up. "What was that?" 

Tracy rested a hand on his shoulder. "Fetch your father, dearie," she said. He looked at her, confused. "Aggie told me we might be having a visitor today. I'd hoped she was wrong..."

That was enough for him. Aunt Aggie was very strange, and he'd already guessed that she wasn't entirely human. She had that look in her eye. He disappeared between the houses, leaving Tracy to stare at the figure who staggered out from cover a moment later. She stood up, half-jogging across the ground. The figure stumbled, collapsing into a heap at the sight of the village. 

"Hello there," she said, kneeling beside him. It was a gruesome sight, just like Agnes said it would be. Crowley's face was swollen and split, with inky bruises that ran beneath his shirt and no doubt went far further. His eyes flicked back and forth, wild and unfocused, as he let out a delirious groan. She reached out to put a comforting hand on his arm, and her palm came away red. His clothes were saturated with blood. "Oh, what did they do to you, your poor man...?"

Crowley flinched, his face contorting. "M... m'sorry," he said, trying to shy away and only agitating his wounds. He'd lost too much blood to be coherent. He didn’t know where he was. "I... I... m’sorry... it's... m... m'scared... h — help..."

She looked up, hearing footsteps approach. Warlock's father rounded the corner, approaching cautiously. She urgently beckoned him closer. "Just lie still, Mister. Lie still, that's it," she said, brushing Crowley’s hair out of his face as gently as she could. He still flinched. The slightest touch was agony, now the adrenaline had faded. "Help is here. Nobody can hurt you now."

With a shuddering breath and a weak nod, he closed his eyes and went limp, letting exhaustion take him. Thaddeus arrived an instant later. He paled at the sight of Crowley's pointed ears. "Is this... one of those things?" he said, with a grimace toward the woods. 

"This is a person in great need, Mister Dowling," she said, moving around to grab Crowley's legs. "Now, take his shoulders, gently, there's a good man. He's very hurt. Three, two, one, and lift!"

The Lieutenant stood before the throne, trying desperately not to wring her hands together. “I have grave news, your majesty,” she said. Her voice echoed in the silent hall. “About Master Crowley.”

Aziraphale blanched. “I see,” he said faintly. He could see the marks of exertion on her face — the sweat and dust — and feared the worst. His heart sank. “Um — out with it, then.”

The Lieutenant shared a desperate glance with her captain. He shrunk back, deferring to her. She sighed. “The disturbance escalated. The intruder had some sort of talisman, and... it revealed that Master Crowley was a shapeshifter, my lord,” she said. The past tense made Aziraphale’s chest burn. “He transformed into a monstrous fire-breathing snake in the town square — black and red, just as you described.”

Aziraphale baulked. “Pardon?” he said, deaf to the whispers spreading across the court.

“Your consort and the Serpent are one in the same, your majesty,” she said, feeling it apt to bow in sympathy, turning her eyes away. “I’m so sorry, sire.”

Aziraphale stared blankly, unresponsive. He couldn’t move an inch. Memories played back in his mind. The day when the shed-skin was found, Crowley had gone missing. The day he’d seen the serpent in the gardens, his husband hadn’t appeared to comfort him until later. His eyes. Good lord, his eyes... The realisation came into sharp focus all at once, turning myth to fact in an instant. His whole body shuddered with the weight of it all.

“How could I have been such a fool?” he whispered to himself, burying his face in one hand. He swallowed back tears. The court looked on in stunned silence; they knew better than to disturb this moment of personal defeat. 

The Lieutenant cleared her throat, glancing helplessly at the captain beside her. He was just as out of his depth. “We will find him, sire,” she said, desperate to bolster him. “He escaped into the human world, and destroyed the ring behind him, but he was wounded. We can — ”

“Wounded?” Aziraphale cried shrilly. 

She frowned. “Well, yes,” she said. “He was bleeding heavily, probably with broken bones and head injuries. We did our utmost, soldiers and civilians alike, against him. Without medical attention, he may even die before we find him.”

Aziraphale blanched even whiter than he already was. He rose from his throne, the chandelier-glow turning from gold to crimson, plunging them all into bloody half-darkness. “You listen here,” said the Queen, his voice heavy with intensity. “Crowley will be found _alive._ Do I make myself clear?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, sire,” she rasped. Relief washed over her as the red light faded back into yellow.

Aziraphale stepped down from the throne, making for the door. Someone called after him. “Do you have orders for us, your majesty...?”

He thought for a moment. “Not now,” he said, staring vacantly at something over his shoulder. “Just... not now...”

He left the room, wandering through the palace alone for the first time in weeks. The guards had been useless after all... The dreaded serpent had been right by his side all along. He could scarcely believe it, but then, the proof was there. Even so, he couldn’t bear the thought of him out there, bleeding to death in the woods. His whole being rebelled against the very notion. He’d ordered for Crowley to be found alive without a second thought. He had to. Condemning Crowley, it was... It was like asking him to tear out his own heart.

He reached his study, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He took a breath. He and Crowley had spent so long here together, talking and laughing and working... He’d fallen in love with him here; he’d also fallen for him in the drawing room, and in the forest, and on the balcony, and even in the throne room. There wasn’t a room in the palace that didn’t bear his memory.

He ran his fingers over the desk. He remembered having their portrait done in this room, side by side. A smile tweaked his lips. Neither one of them had sat still for poor Raziel, and yet she’d still managed to capture an excellent likeness. He recalled how hungry Crowley was that day. His heart skipped a beat; it put it all in a new context. He’d laid in bed beside a ravenous serpent, and yet, he’d come to no harm. He’d offered to have sex with him, and he’d refused; he’d given him the perfect opportunity to take advantage of his ignorance, but he didn’t. Crowley could have killed him — or worse — a hundred times over by now... but instead, he’d made Aziraphale feel safe. He made him feel loved. He’d promised the serpent wouldn’t harm him, and he’d been true to his word. Aziraphale owed it to him, to be good to him in return. 

He opened a drawer, finding two books of prophecy inside. He took them out, and pursed his lips at the sight of them. “Oh, you old... old... _witch,”_ he said spitefully. 

Flames licked high in the town square. People had gathered by the fire, shaken and some still foaming at the mouth. Guards patrolled the throng, in case of a riot. The restless attitude refused to settle, even as the sound of hooves on cobbles approached the square. All eyes turned to the road. Mercury tossed his head, his mane glittering orange by the firelight as he circled the pyre. Aziraphale sat proud on his back, his shoulders squared and chin held high. A unit of guards one horseback accompanied him, and the dukes trailed behind on foot. They had been ordered to stay on the ground. 

Aziraphale looked out on the faces of his people. Some were frightened, just like him. Others carried a bloodthirsty gleam in their eye. He took a deep breath, schooling his expression. He had no way of knowing who amongst them had attacked Crowley, and he couldn’t punish them all. He simply had to forgive. 

“Today, we suffered a terrible shock,” he said, his voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. “I shan’t pretend I saw it coming. No one could have known what today would bring.”

There was a murmur of sympathetic agreement among the crowd. Gabriel watched Aziraphale with interest, unable to gauge his expression. He hadn’t cried, or screamed, or broken down. Not even a petal fell from the tree.

To his surprise, Aziraphale held up a pair of familiar green books, bound in twine. “But _she_ could have. I have reason to believe that she foresaw it all, and said nothing. For eons, she let us believe we lived under threat from an enemy we could not see, nor even imagine,” he said, speaking more strongly than he had in years. Righteous anger lent him strength. The crowd grew uneasy, glancing at one another, taken aback. “Now, she expects me to believe that the enemy I feared for so long... is the only man I ever loved.”

A ripple went through the crowd. Aziraphale stared dispassionately down at the prophecies. “I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life,” he said, tossing the books onto the fire with a flick of his wrist. The onlookers gasped. Gabriel’s jaw dropped. Embers rose into the sky as the fire leapt onto the paper, greedily blackening the pages and distorting the binding. Aziraphale tugged Mercury’s reins. “I’m going to find my husband, and invite him home with honour — and a full pardon.”

Gabriel couldn’t hold his tongue. “Your majesty!” he yelled, shouldering through to the front. Rage burned in his gut. “You can’t just _ignore_ the wisdom of — ”

“I didn’t ask _you,_ Gabriel. I will not tolerate debate on the matter,” he said, towering over him from Mercury’s back. The unicorn lowered his head threateningly, with an angry huff. Gabriel stumbled back, incensed, as Aziraphale turned away from him, throwing one last cutting remark over his shoulder before galloping off toward the gate. “I made that man a vow, and I damn well intend to keep it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s late. Had some bad news & I’m not in a good way.


	30. His Name

"Wh... Where am I?"

Tracy dropped her book and rushed over to her guest's side. "Ah! You're awake. You're a very hardy soul, Mister Crowley, if you don't mind me saying so," she said, helping him into a sitting position. He frowned at her.

"How do you know my name?" he said, looking down at himself. His ruined shirt was nowhere to be seen, and his wounds were stitched shut and coated in green paste with a bitter smell. They reminded him of the herbs Anathema had given him, months ago. His skin was still ruddy and crusted with blood, under which sat a carpet of bruises. 

"Mutual friends. Or, well... something of the sort," she said, and lifted a cup to his mouth. "Here, have some water."

He sipped from the cup, and blinked rapidly. He took in his surroundings: a small room with a roaring hearth, stone all the way around, decorated with garish blankets and wall-hangings. It was a human home. "I don't remember getting here."

"You were in terrible shape when you arrived this morning, I agree," she said. "You're lucky Agnes was around to work her magic on you, or you'd have been pushing up the daisies in no time."

"Sorry, who?" he said. As if she'd heard — and she probably had — the door swung open, and a handsome fae strode in with more confidence than any Queen could wear. She had a glint in her eye and a smirk on her lips that made the pieces click into place immediately. Fire sparked in Crowley's eyes. _"You..."_

"Me," she replied airily, tossing her shawl into the travelling bag on the table. "Tell me, Master Dullahan... How has my book treated you?"

He curled his lip. "You know how, you old bitch," he spat. Tracy raised her eyebrows and wisely backed out of the way, to sip tea in the corner and pretend she wasn't there. "I've been beaten, stabbed, betrayed, bullied and controlled since the day I stepped into that bloody mess you made. Would it be so hard to have just said, _oh, by the way, Aziraphale, your husband isn't going to kill you in your sleep, no need to rile your people up for six millennia to drive him out!"_

Tracy gasped lightly, looking at his wounds in a new light. The fae she'd met, the people she'd laughed and joked with as a child... _they_ did this? Agnes didn't react. "I prophecise as the fates compel me," she said calmly. She continued gathering items and placing them in the bag. "Clairvoyance is not a gift to be used to shape the future as I wish for it to be. I was only ever a messenger."

"Yeah, well, tell the fates they're shit bosses," he said, his voice cracking. "And they've ruined my life."

"Mine as well," she said, ever-stoic, clipping her travel bag shut and pulling it over her shoulder. She turned, staring at the broken man laid out on the rickety bed. "I suppose you have often guided people to the other side who did not want to go, who blamed you for bringing this upon them."

His brow twitched. "Yeah," he said, his anger slipping. 

"Now you know how they feel," she said, looking down on him with the same detachment that Crowley wore when he looked at those pitiable souls. The revelation chilled him to the bone. She was just like him; merely the guide, showing people the way to their fate, but having little part in writing it herself. She inclined her head to him. "Take it as a lesson in humility, Master Dullahan. Life will go on."

"Until it doesn't," he said, aggrieved, unable to target his grief-stricken anger at anyone but himself. 

"Not my department," she said with a wry note in her voice. He gave a bitter chuckle. "I must take my leave now, lest I get caught on the wrong end of a unicorn's horn."

He looked up sharply. "He's coming?"

"Very soon, yes. Queens are not accustomed to being told _no,_ as you are well aware," she said. He groaned, sinking back down onto the bed. She passed him by, stopping to press a kiss to the crown of Tracy's head as she passed her. "Do give our royal friend what-for, won't you? Raise your left hand to him first, mind. He'll catch your first blow."

"You don't need to tell me twice," she huffed, with a watery glance at poor Crowley. She looked up at Agnes with a rueful smile. "What if you stayed, Aggie? Hm? You've been around since I was a little girl."

"I'm not fool enough to live in these borderlands any longer, Tracy," she said quietly. "Wrathful fairy Queens are a force of nature. Mark my words... never wrong him, not like I have done. He isn't as soft as he has let you believe."

She glanced at the Dullahan, reduced to a bloody mess cowering in a human bed. "So I've noticed."

The guards were silent as their Queen led them through the woods. He was stoic and determined, his cloak drawn close around him like it could hide his pain. They didn't know what to think. He was their ruler, wise and old and experienced... But love was a powerful intoxication. Was he under some spell? No one was brave enough to suggest it. Aziraphale had cast aside fate and turned a blind eye to the future, all for his beloved serpent. Perhaps heartbreak had driven him mad already. Still... mad or not, he was the only Queen they had. They were bound to serve him, or abandon everything they’d ever known. 

It took a swift snap of his fingers to repair the fairy ring. The woods on the other side were just as maddeningly alien to the fae as their land was to the humans. Fog crawled over the ground, rippling as if it held some unseen creature beneath, kicked up as Mercury plodded onward. One guard cleared her throat lightly. "Please be careful, y'majesty..." she said with a shiver. The cold was unfamiliar. "The sn— er, anythin' could be hidden in this... white... air..."

He shot her a hard glance. "My dear girl," he said, holding his head high. "I'm quite confident that the only thing in these woods worth fearing is _me."_

She paled, and ducked her head. "O'course, sire. My mistake."

She fell back, following him through the murmuring trees. He was glad he thought to bring the cloak, soothed by its weight and warmth. He'd never been privileged with a childhood, so the petty comfort of a soft fur collar was as close as he'd ever got to the likes of a teddy-bear. He resisted the urge to clutch at it as the trees thinned, and the grey sky peered down. He was going to find Crowley. He'd be alive, and relieved to find that Aziraphale accepted him, scales and all. They'd talk it out, and... and everything would be okay again. They'd ride into the city together on Mercury's back, without fear, all the way to the palace. There, after a thorough checking-over from Anathema, Crowley would be pampered and doted on, personally, by the Queen himself. He’d do anything he asked. There would be no royal duty for him until Crowley was safe and well. If Aziraphale could just prove to him how much he loved him... He'd smile again. He'd heal. He even dared to hope he might forgive him.

He halted Mercury when the human village came into view, just past the veil of branches and undergrowth. "Stay here. Let no human pass into the woods," he said, sliding down from the unicorn's back. Mercury snorted, discontent. Aziraphale idly patted his nose as he passed, transfixed by the houses in front of him. He had to hope Crowley had taken refuge there. If he hadn't, well... 

"Sire, you cannot go alone," a soldier protested, sharing helpless glances with his peers. "Let us come with you."

"Crowley wouldn’t harm me," he said dismissively, frowning at the ground. Was this mess of brown sludge just... leaves? They looked nothing like the ones Crowley had so lovingly selected for him. Without even turning to look at the ashen faces of his guards, he pushed his way out of the trees and into the open air. 

The humans had become wary of the wilderness, and the creatures that hid there. Movement was spotted from a mile off. Mothers herded their children inside, snapping the shutters closed and locking the doors, well before Aziraphale stepped into the watery sunshine. The village seemed deserted. Aziraphale fiddled with his hands as he approached, looking this way and that for any sign of life. The main road was abandoned. Smoke drifted from the rooves as hearths burned to stave off the autumn cold, and he could see fresh tracks in the dirt, so where were the humans? 

"H... Hello? Anybody there?" he called tentatively. His voice echoed across the grey and barren scene. "I mean you no harm. I'm looking for someone, you see. A red-headed gentleman, probably looking a little worse for wear at the moment, and I'd like to take him home... Hello? Is there really nobody here?"

A shadow lingered behind the shutters of a nearby house. This creature was eerily familiar; she would know him anywhere, proud and pale and unmistakably fae. She hadn't been able to see his pointed ears that night in the woods, nor the curls in his blond hair, nor the chilling blue of his eyes. Harriet recognised him anyway. This wasn't just some herald or messenger, not if Tracy's memory was true. This was Queen Aziraphale himself, sovereign over the fair folk who dwelt in the woods... a place which had been theirs long before humans settled in these lands. There was a tug at her sleeve. 

She looked back, seeing her husband's wide eyes. "It's him, isn't it?" he whispered. "The thing that took our son." 

"He's looking for the other one, the one in black," she said. Her heart lurched as she thought of Tracy, unawares, in her cottage just beyond the village... She'd let Warlock visit the creature there, after Tracy had assured them that he was a good fairy, the very same who had convinced the Queen to return Warlock to his home. 

"Then what're we waiting for? Let's show him," Thaddeus said, making for the door. She wrenched him back. "The quicker we give him what he wants, the quicker he leaves."

"What? No!" she hissed, with a nervous glance at the window. "Warlock is in that house. Who's to say he won't take him as well?"

There was a polite knock at the door. Thaddeus's response died in his throat, and they shared a paranoid glance. Smoothing down her dress, Harriet unlatched the door, and eased it open a sliver. Aziraphale stood on the doorstep. 

"Ah, hello there. Pardon the intrusion, but since I led you to your son not so very long ago, I was wondering if you might return the favour by directing me to my missing husband," Aziraphale said with a broad smile, though it was distinctly an order, not a request. It was the smile of a man who was one firm _no_ away from snapping completely. 

"How did you know this was our home?" she said, holding his gaze. Her heart fluttered to an irregular pace. 

He tapped one of his pointed ears. "You humans do whisper terribly loud," he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Now, since I happened to overhear your conversation... if you would be so kind as to take me to my dear Crowley, and then we'll be on our way."

Tracy kept her impromptu visitor as comfortable as she could. He'd been happy to see Warlock again, and the two had talked endlessly while Tracy brewed the tea. The child hadn't been daunted in the face of Crowley's wounds. Perhaps he just didn't realise how severe they were; he had very little concept of battle or abuse, after all. Tracy smiled at the pair. It was a nostalgic sight, watching a fae regale a young human with outlandish stories. She peered out of the curtains, spotting a white-cloaked figure walking up the path. She set her jaw. Agnes had told her to give him what-for, so what-for she shall give. 

She slipped out the front door, hurrying down the path to block her garden gate before he could reach it. He approached with an amiable smile. "Hello there, madam. I understand you have a friend of mine in there," he said, nodding at the cottage. He fidgeted where he stood, itching to get inside. She crossed her arms. Aziraphale's brow furrowed slightly, uncertain. "I'd very much like to take him home."

"Well, that's no way to greet an old friend," she said sourly. He was far too unapologetic for her liking. Didn't he at least have the good grace to arrive with his tail between his legs, ready to beg his husband to come back? Was he so naive as to think he'd fall straight back into his arms after all that had happened to him? Crowley had told her how this marriage had started. She couldn't look past that.

"Pardon?" he said, tilting his head. He looked her up and down, uncomprehending. "I don't believe we've met."

"It's been a long time," she said, raising her eyebrows at him. "Aziraphale."

He looked closer. Frizzy red hair, a glint of intelligence in her eye... "Tracy? Is that you, my dear?" he gasped. A sad smile curled her lip as he reached out to cup her face, remembering when she barely stood chest-height. "My, how you've grown!"

"And how you've changed," she said, turning her face away from his grip. He drew back, hurt. "I remember a fairy who would never have dreamed of doing what you've done to that poor man."

"What on earth are you talking about? I haven't laid a finger on him," he said, affronted. 

"And I suppose that makes you think you're not responsible for the state he's in," she shot back. 

"As a matter of fact, it does," he said haughtily. That was the last straw. Tracy curled her lip, and swung at him. He caught her wrist a mere inch from his face. He scowled as if she were still that bothersome child who had wandered into his realm decades ago. "Don't forget who I am, Tr — "

She slapped him hard with her free hand, landing the blow. "Get off your high horse," she spat, before the Queen could compute the stinging red mark on his cheek. "Don't you dare go in there thinking you've done no wrong."

He let go of her wrist, brushing his fingers over his cheek. He stared at her, offended and stunned. "I suggest you let me pass, Tracy," he said in an undertone. Agnes's final warning — _he isn't as soft as he has let you believe_ — echoed in her ears. She sighed.

She stood aside. He brushed past, stung by the encounter. What had gotten into her? Ruffled, he lay a hand against the front door, pushing it open. A wave of blood-tainted air rolled out, along with a rush of clammy heat. His eyes adjusted to the low, fire-lit shadows in the cottage, finding the figure on the bed. Crowley lay there, beaten and marked with violence, gripping the bedframe as he recognised the face at the door. Warlock daren't speak. He looked between them, sensing the complicated emotions already growing thick in the air. Tracy appeared at the doorframe.

"I think this is between them, dear," she murmured, holding out her hand to him. "Come on now, let's get you home."

He nodded, with a final worried glance at Crowley, before he skirted around Aziraphale and out into the garden. The door rattled shut behind him. Silence reigned. Crowley took deep breaths, each one sending pain lacing over his skin as it tugged his wounds. It was the only thing proving he was still awake. 

"Here to end it, are you?" he said, hardly daring to push himself up for fear he’d be struck back down. He was on his back, defenceless, waiting for the end. He'd at least hoped it wouldn't be him that came. He'd wanted to remember Aziraphale as he'd last seen him, smiling and drowsy in their bed... Even that small mercy had abandoned him, it seemed. 

"End what?" Aziraphale said, snapping from the horrified stare he'd been running over the wounds on his body. 

Crowley leaned back, expecting a trap. "This. Us," he said. He swallowed hard. "Me."

Aziraphale's throat tightened, his eyes growing damp. "Oh, Crowley, no... I didn't come here to — to kill you," he said, hardly able to say it. "I couldn't care less if you're the serpent. I just want to bring you home."

He finally dared to push himself up into a sitting position, never taking his eyes off him. Aziraphale's gut twisted. He saw no relief there, no affection, no tenderness; he watched him liked a rabbit watched a fox. "Home?" he rasped. "My home is 200 miles away. You've got screws loose if you think I'm going back to that palace! If you don't kill me, they will!"

"Wh... what?" he said, taking a step closer. Crowley flinched. Aziraphale paused, his heart beginning to crack, unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Absolutely not! That would be — it would be — well, treason!"

Crowley shuddered, shaking his head. "No. It's not. I'm no king, Aziraphale," he said, a lump in his throat as he watched the tears gathering in his eyes. "Never was. Never will be."

Aziraphale chewed his lip. He couldn't fall back on the prophecies to help him now. He'd abandoned them, all of them. "If that's what you truly think, why did you marry me?" he said, glancing down at the ring on his finger, his most treasured piece of jewellery. "I told you the prophecy. You could have said no."

Crowley's face creased with pain. He hung his head. "I tried," he whispered, barely audible. 

Any trace of hope vanished from Aziraphale's face. "What?" 

"I tried to leave so many times. I wanted to protect you, ang — Aziraphale," he said, his voice thick with grief. The pet-name didn’t seem appropriate anymore. "I knew what I was. All along. I knew. I never planned to stay."

The Queen stared, unable to draw breath. "You... You said... you tried to say no," he breathed. His throat dried up entirely as Crowley squeezed his eyes shut; he'd hoped he'd forgotten that slip of the tongue. He gave a small nod. "What do you mean? You said yes. I remember it like it was yesterday. You said yes _twice."_

Crowley dragged a hand over his face. It came away wet with tears. "Sometimes... sometimes, you didn't need to say my name to make me do what you wanted," he said. His voice could hardly strain above the sound of his own breathing, but Aziraphale felt every word like the strike of a whip. He grasped the table, his knees suddenly unable to take his weight. He shook his head. 

"No."

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale," he said, avoiding his gaze. 

"You can't be — That would mean — " he said, his eyes glazing over for a moment. When he spoke again, the words came out frail and wavering. "What we had, was... was any of it... real?"

He hadn't expected that. He faltered, opening his mouth, but his throat was too cloyed with tears. A weak sob escaped Aziraphale's mouth, and he covered his eyes, shivering. His whole being burned with the agony. Six thousand years he'd waited, and after all this time thinking he'd been in love... None of it had been real. Not for Crowley, at least. He'd been a fool from the start. Why would the Dullahan ever give up his old life for an ageing Queen in a palace full of vultures?

Crowley sat in silence, his heart already in pieces. He should have known better. This was his fault; why didn't he leave before Aziraphale went and fell in love with him, too? He'd been selfish, and it cost the Queen his heart. He had no place among his people, and he'd always known it. He couldn't go back. All he could do was keep his mouth shut, and hope that if he just limped off quietly into the night, Aziraphale would grow to hate him instead. He'd find someone else. This way, at least, life would go on for them both. Immortality would give Aziraphale all the years he'd need to move on, and he would love again. Next time, Crowley hoped, he'd find someone that deserved it. A shadow fell over his bed.

“How will you get home?” Aziraphale asked, his voice low and quiet. 

“Tracy says there’s a ferry I can take, down the coast. I can walk from there,” he said. “It’ll only take a few days.”

The Queen nodded, in that same businesslike way he used at court. "One last thing," Aziraphale murmured. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with tears, but he kept his shoulders squared and his expression carefully controlled. He reached for Crowley's hand. His fingers brushed over the bulky gold ring on his finger, and he drew back with a sharp gasp. 

"No," he said, harsher than he'd meant to. Aziraphale frowned. "I... I'd like to keep it. Souvenir."

There was a long pause. Aziraphale took a deep breath, struggling to bear this room any longer. "Why?"

"I don't hate you. I could never hate you," he said. He couldn't let him think that. He couldn't sleep if he let him believe that he'd secretly loathed him all this time. "I want to remember this. What we had."

Aziraphale nodded tersely, looking away. He refused to let himself hope. Perhaps there had been something genuine in their marriage after all, but that didn’t mean it could last. It didn’t mean he deserved to have him back. He refused to even speak, for fear he'd unknowingly bind him to his will yet again. He sighed. He opened his mouth, and murmured three words: simple, powerful words. He should have given them away a long time ago. Maybe it would’ve changed things.

"What?" Crowley said, bemused by them. "What's, er... what's that mean?"

"It's my name. Take it as my apology," he said hoarsely. Crowley's heart stopped. "It's been lovely knowing you. If only we'd met on a better occasion."

He turned away. He daren’t show any more of his turmoil than he already had. None of this was Crowley’s fault, after all, so why bother him with it? He opened the door, hesitating for a moment as the cold air rushed through him. He daren’t look over his shoulder. The last Crowley saw of him was his carefully manicured hands pulling the door shut behind him, leaving him there, a free man at last. Crowley sat there, staring at the royal crest on his wedding ring. He’d tried to take it back, like it had never happened. After all the longing, the love, the pain... It was over.

He buried his head in his hands, and began to cry. 

Mercury’s hooves were the only things that dared make a noise as Aziraphale rode down the main street, alone. He knew his people were watching him. They always were. Hundreds of eyes followed him down the street, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and grim expression. Anger sparked in the pit of his stomach. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Didn’t they realise what they’d done? How they’d beaten and wounded an innocent man? A man who had already suffered enough? His vacant stare hardened into a glower. Several flowers had fallen while he’d been away. One lay in the road, its enormous petals stirred by the wind. It could lie there and rot, for all he cared. Let them see. Let them all see what they’d done. He guided Mercury around it without sparing it a second glance. 

He slid out of his saddle at the foot of the palace steps. “Aziraphale?” asked a quiet voice behind him. He turned his head slightly. 

“Hello, Brian.”

“Is he okay?” he asked, hugging himself tightly. A ghost of a smile passed over Aziraphale’s lips, fond and bittersweet.

“He’s quite alright,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. He struggled to find the words to explain all this to a child. “He’s going home.”

“But... isn’t this his home?” he said in a small voice. Aziraphale shut his eyes, trying to control his response. Another petal began to drift down from the tree. 

“No, dear. It’s not,” he said, and began to walk up the steps. The palace doors swung open, and closed behind him with a sense of chilling finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! The whole situation with the bad news last week has sort of turned itself on its head so, fingers crossed, all being well, it should all be resolved soon :)
> 
> Also uh. Rough chapter, huh?


	31. Homeward Bound

Crowley dared not stay in the human village for long. Before she disappeared, Agnes had at least done him the kindness of ensuring his wounds wouldn't hold him down there. Warlock's father lent him some clothes for his journey. It was only as he dressed in them that he looked around and realised just how little of him had survived his time in the Blossom Queendom. His clothes were ruined, Azrael was too pregnant to escape with him, and his heart would never recover... He knew he'd never love again, not after this. How could he ever look at someone else that way, without feeling like he was betraying Aziraphale? Even if he'd been the most cowardly, selfish bastard alive, he'd be a loyal one. He'd made a vow, after all. He'd sworn himself to Aziraphale, and him alone. That still meant something to him, even now. The wedding ring was his only possession left, at that moment. He had nothing else. It had to have meant something, something more than a mistake.

He said his goodbyes. Warlock cried. Crowley had no tears left, and just held him until he didn't either. He thanked Tracy for all she'd done. It all seemed surreal, and a little wrong, walking out of that village. He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to Adam and the others, or Deidre, or Azrael. He'd lost everything in the blink of an eye, thrown back into his old life of solitude without warning. 

He thought of little else as he walked to the shore. It was miles away, but he set off early, and relished the chance to be on his feet again. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or distraught when the woods faded into nothingness on the horizon at his back. For a while, they looked almost like those cold gates to the Other Side that he hadn't seen in so long. 

The fishing village he arrived at looked as bleak as he felt. Grey skies arched overhead, with a dark sea that seemed intent upon bucking the fishing boats from its waves. He grimaced, pulling his hood lower. He didn't even have his glasses anymore. He also didn't have any money to pay for a voyage, but, well... he'd just have to draw upon a few old fae tricks to help him along. He'd scooped up several broad, flat stones from the road on his way over, which took on the guise of shining gold pieces in his pocket. They were enough to make the harbour master turn a blind eye to his presence, and welcome him aboard the last long-haul merchant ship headed south that season.

He collapsed on deck, hanging his head. Sailors bustled around him. No one was eager to talk to him; they were a superstitious bunch, and a snake-eyed man aboard their ship was either a benevolent spirit or treacherous bad luck. Crowley hoped he'd be neither. He was sick of hearing all that people expected of him, the good or the bad. He just wanted some peace and quiet, and alcohol. Quite _extraordinary_ amounts of alcohol. 

Petals kept falling. Gabriel ordered them to be gathered every morning, because no matter how many days passed, there would always be more upon the ground the next day. The people were terrified. Rumours were rife. Some said a curse had been put upon the Queen to drain his life, but those were the few. Most feared that he'd discovered Crowley's body in the human world, and now the grief was killing him. Brian's conversation hadn't garnered much attention with the frightened populous. Anathema could no longer leave the palace without being harassed with questions and angry townsfolk who blamed her for failing to heal the Queen. 

Aziraphale went about his days as best he could. He knew what was happening out there. How couldn't he? He felt that agony every second of the day, creeping through his veins like poison, draining him... It never went away. The weaker he felt, the more he longed for Crowley, and the more he yearned, the more it hurt. It was a vicious cycle. Anathema was doing her best to slow it down, but there wasn't much to be done. She could only recommend sleep, nutrition and talk therapy. He didn't do much of the latter. Talking would remind him of all that he'd lost, all that had never really been his in the first place, all that he had been selfishly hoarding to himself without even knowing...

He was sat at his desk, almost a week since his breakup, when he realised he hadn't removed his wedding ring yet. He stared at it. It gleamed, the runes on the metal catching the light... Crowley hadn't wanted to forget him, at least. Maybe there was a part of him that had loved him, once, before he was attacked. He couldn't quite tell if it hurt more or less, realising that Crowley must have loved him in some way. All the gentle touches, loving looks, all the kisses that he'd initiated... His face crumpled, and he buried his head in his hands. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but he wanted him back. He wanted him back more than anything. He didn't care how. He just wanted to be with him again. 

A bank of fog shielded the ancient graveyard from the outside world. This had been a place of death for eons, and had been long forgotten by anyone who wasn't interred here. Burial mounds littered the heath, eerie shapes in the earth that reared up from the wall of mist almost without warning. Crowley walked among them, a dark wraith upon the moor, his unkempt hair tossed by a fell breeze. His eyes glowed in the murk. Dew clung to the grasses, dampening his clothes as he passed. He stopped, coming to a halt before one of the mounds whose stone had crumbled, leaving a tall, dark mouth into the tomb within. He sunk to his knees. 

For a long time, he remained motionless, as if he'd turned to stone where he knelt. Carrion-birds cawed, somewhere far beyond this forgotten resting place, as he waited. A curious rabbit began to hop toward him. Its nose twitched. Crowley's eyes turned slowly, fixed on the creature. It edged closer, sitting up to sniff the air, unsure whether this newcomer to the burial mounds was friend or foe. It was too young to remember who he was; too young to know it should have run away.

Crowley struck. His hand snapped shut around the rabbit like serpent's jaws, dragging it back to him. It wriggled and squealed, twisting to bite his hand. "Sorry mate," he said with a wince, looking away as he took hold of its neck. "Forgot my keys."

A short twist, and the rabbit fell limp in his hands. He murmured another apology, laying it on the ground with as much respect as he could muster. If Azrael had been here, there would have been no need for that. He didn't like having to sacrifice a life just to get back into his own realm. He stepped over the little corpse, into the burial mound, where a distant pinprick of light had appeared in the deep shadows.

It was still Autumn in his realm. It had no Queen, so the seasons moved like clockwork in time with the human world. He emerged onto the hilltop, feeling the gateway close behind him with a spark of magic. It wasn't easy to get into this place. He used to be glad of that. 

His house sat at the foot of the hill. It was a simple slate-roof cottage, made for living alone. The once-proud garden which sprawled out around it was now decidedly messier and stunted, but not the disaster he'd expected. He allowed himself a wry smile, glancing at the smoke rising from the other side of the orchard which hemmed in his home. His young neighbour had done his best to look after things in his absence, it seemed. Thundering hooves attracted his attention. He spun to face the three black horses storming up the hill toward him. He grinned. 

"Carmine, Sable, Snowy!" he called, realising how terribly he'd missed them as they galloped up the hill together. "Come to daddy, that's it — but bloody hell, watch your feet! It's steep!"

Carmine got there first, and greeted him with a hearty shove. He laughed, holding his balance, kissing her on the nose. Snowy, who got his name from the white patch on his chest, followed with a mouthful of grass still hanging from his teeth. Sable whinnied loudly as he arrived. They gathered around him, sniffing his clothes and licking his face, with the odd nip from Carmine which made him shout in surprise. "Some things never change," he said in exasperation. Sable poked him, backed up with a snort from Snowy. The weight of grief returned to his shoulders as he realised what they were asking. "Sorry, guys. Azrael's not coming back."

Carmine stamped her foot. "It's not my fault!" Crowley protested. The three horses looked unconvinced. "She went and got knocked up with some unicorn's foal. I had nothing to do with it."

Snowy puffed. "Don't give me that. We'll be fine," he said irritably. He glanced down the hill, where the Cóiste Bodhar sat motionless by his house, right where he'd left it. It was a large black funeral coach, for busy days at work. He sighed. "Looks like the coach won't move until we're back up to four again, though... Sorry Carmine. You're on breeding duty."

She tossed her head, and trotted off down the hill in a huff. He spread his arms in exasperation. "Oh, come on! You're the only mare left. I can't pull a foal out of thin air," he called after her. Sable looked at him with a hint of judgement. "Shut up. You're only being that way 'cause Snowy's got a better shot than you."

Sable bit him on the arm, drawing a shout, before following Carmine down the hill. Snowy followed along in solidarity. He groaned, and walked down after them. He'd better get a proper look at the damage now he was back. It wasn't like he had much else to do. Happy as he was to see his horses, he'd left a part of himself 200 miles north, and he wasn't going to get it back. That burned him, somewhere deep down on the inside. It burned him that this was what he'd chosen. 

Gritting his teeth, he kicked aside his garden gate and made his way to the door. He pulled it open, casting a long shadow into the hall. Something rustled to his left. Slowly, he turned his head, casting an eye over the stooped and withered houseplants desperately trying to pull themselves upright to a semblance of health. "Oh, you picked a _bad_ day to underperform," he said with a malevolent edge in his voice, kicking the door shut. 

Michael made his way through the streets, using memory to guide him. Darkness had fallen, and the stars were blotted out by thick grey clouds. He'd worked late today, picking up the slack Aziraphale had dropped when he'd developed a migraine after lunch. Every day was a new fight. This was only the beginning, though... He'd heard stories of the terrible effects it could have on a Queen, if their tree continued to shed its blooms. It wasn't just a catastrophe, in that case. It would be a slow, choking, painful death. Trying to banish the thought, he noticed a flicker of lamplight as he passed the large glass house where Gabriel kept his plants. He hesitated. Who would be in there at this hour...?

He skirted around the edge of the greenhouse until he spotted that one pane of glass had been left ajar. He stopped there, listening to the voices inside. "You said this would be simple," Uriel said, her footsteps echoing on the stone as she paced behind a wall of foliage. 

"How was I supposed to know it would affect him like this?" Gabriel bit back. "He's overreacting."

Michael's brow furrowed. It wasn't like Aziraphale could control his own heart — and besides that, his suspicions were confirmed. It had been Gabriel and the others who had called the Unseelie mage to the realm. "The petals keep falling regardless," Sandalphon pointed out. "What can we do but wait and hope?"

There was a long pause. "... Talk to him?" Uriel suggested. Gabriel scoffed. "No, listen to me. The nurse claims it could help."

"Our first priority is to defend ourselves, as we've discussed. No one will be talking to the Queen — well, no one but _me_ , understand? Don't forget our plan," he said stridently, and Michael didn't even need to guess to know what that was. He wanted the crown. "We watch, and we wait."

"And if it gets worse?" Sandalphon asked.

"Then we take control of the situation," Gabriel said. "But for now, we do what we can to slow the effects of the shock. We give the Queen what he wants."

"Crowley?"

"No!" he snapped. "Closure, Sandalphon. We give him closure... or revenge, to me and you."

Chairs scraped as Gabriel stood, and Michael quickly fled from the greenhouse. Yet again, here he was, at a loss for what to do and knowing little else but the fact that the other dukes were plotting something. At least this time, they were trying to help. As he wove through the streets, back toward home, he pondered whether it would do any good to tell Aziraphale what had gone on. The dukes had driven Crowley out. He deserved to know, but... he had done nothing, even when he knew what was coming. Aziraphale would not look kindly on him for that. Nor would he be happy to discover Michael's involvement with the theft of the crown, or setting up the duel, which Uriel and Sandalphon would no doubt reveal if they were caught. At his core, Michael was afraid. He didn't want to lose so many years of dedication and work. And with Aziraphale's mood in steady yet certain decline... who knew how dire the penalty could be, for having acted against the consort?

Newt arrived at ten o'clock in the morning at the abandoned cottage, to tend the garden and feed the horses, only to find that it wasn't so abandoned anymore. Candlelight flickered in the window, and Crowley's own gardening tools leant against the wall, finally retrieved from the bolted-up shed. Newt put down his feed bucket. The horses were nowhere to be seen, and he didn't blame them. There was a lot of shouting and screaming going on behind that door. He gulped.

Fiddling with his hands, he edged closer, nudging open the garden gate. When his grumpy neighbour had vanished at the tail end of last Autumn, he hadn't expected him to be missing for over a year. He'd even wondered if he might be dead. He paused by the front door, a heavy wooden affair with a large metal bolt on the other side. He tilted his head, listening; the newt on his head cowered back further into his hair. 

"You bastards thought you were safe, was that it? Thought I wasn't coming back? That I’d never find out?" Crowley raved, his footfalls heavy on the floor. "Look at yourselves. Pathetic, sorry excuses for plants. You've disappointed me... no, worse than that. You've _betrayed_ me."

Newt winced. He was never very nice to his plants. He raised his fist to knock when all fell silent for a moment. Something smashed against the other side, rattling the door on its hinges, followed by an anguished scream. He jumped. Maybe now was a bad time...

He shook his head, and took a deep breath. No. Crowley was always telling him that he needed to grow a spine, though he suspected that had been a joke about his whip, at the time. He knocked on the door. "Um... hello?" he called, cringing at the silence that followed.

Footsteps approached the door. There was a clinking noise which sounded a lot like a smashed plant pot being kicked out of the way of the door. The bolt hissed, and Crowley answered. "What?"

Newt paled. Crowley's hair was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot from tears, and bruises still discoloured his skin in large patches. "You look awful," he said, horrified. Crowley arched a brow, unamused. "Er — I didn't mean — I'm sorry. Just... thought I'd say hello. You've been gone for ages."

"Yep," he said flatly.

"What happened?" he said, hardly daring to meet his eyes. There was a coldness in them that hadn't been there before; not cruel, not exactly, more like... more like he was terribly lost.

He tilted his head, his impassive mask slipping. "You don't know?" he said. "I thought it was big news, what I... what I did."

He shrugged sheepishly. "I don't get out much," he said. He didn't have any occult horses to carry him safely in and out of the realm, and wasn't a big fan of killing things, so he was more or less confined to his own home. 

Crowley took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. "Right. Okay, uh... long story short, I got snagged by a Queen. One thing led to another, you know how it goes..." he said, skimming over the fine details. He couldn't bear them anymore. "Ended up becoming his royal consort. Got kicked out. Now I'm back."

Newt opened and shut his mouth, at a loss. "A — A Queen?" he squeaked, cowering as if Crowley's spouse could be hiding around any corner. He'd never seen one himself, but he'd heard things, awful things... They could be despotic, entitled and temperamental, making for a very volatile cocktail when such powerful magic was in the mix. 

"Seelie Queen, yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck as Newt's eyes widened even further. "Aziraphale the First. Heard of him...?"

"Is — Isn't he one of the last Grand Fae?" he said, awe overtaking his horror for a moment. 

"One of the what?" 

"The Grand Fae. The oldest Queens, the ones who survived the Great Fae-War," he said, looking expectantly at the Dullahan. "You've got to have heard of the war, surely."

"I was there, Newt. I remember," he said irritably, cowing him. "You forget, it's not my job to count survivors."

"Right. Sorry, I forget you're... um..." he said, trailing off. Now was not the best time to call Crowley old. He'd only ever seen images of the war in his history books, of the ruin and fire as the Seelie and Unseelie clashed in a devastating racial war, the like of which had never happened before or since. It had ended millennia before he'd been created. "Are you alright? That's all I was trying to ask."

Crowley thought about it for a moment. Physically, he was aching, but he hadn't passed out yet. His wounds stayed shut and clean. Mentally, he was lucid. Emotionally? Not so much. "I'm coping," he said guardedly. 

Newt glanced at the shards of plant-pot and scattered soil on the floor, which until now they had both valiantly ignored. "D'you fancy a drink?"

"... Go on then."

Newt made a brief trip through the orchard to fetch a bottle from his stash, and Crowley already had a some wine uncorked by the time he returned. The remains of the plant pot had been swept into the corner to be dealt with later, and he could still hear the telltale rustling of frightened foliage behind a closed door. He'd learnt to ignore that a long time ago. Living things tended not to like Crowley much; they had the good sense to bolt if the Dullahan was pursuing them. Plants were no different, but unfortunately for them, they couldn't run away (and looking at the way the roots escaped the drainage holes in their pots, he suspected they'd tried). Crowley didn't help matters by shouting, he had to say. He sat down at the coffee table, setting the bottle down and picking up a glass of wine. 

He opened his mouth, and Crowley immediately held up his finger, silencing him. "No, don't ask," he said, swallowing his mouthful of wine, knowing that his long disappearance would be the first thing on his mind. "Not drunk enough yet."

Newt guiltily set aside the questions buzzing in his head. He took a draught of wine to steady himself, trying to dampen his curiosity. He couldn't help it. His whole life was in books and maps, usually ones Crowley wordlessly posted through his door or threw at him with an offhand comment about how he'd just _happened_ to find it on his travels, so he may as well have it. He'd read about the war, the Grand Fae, the Seelie race... He'd sometimes asked Crowley about it, but he always brushed him off. He didn't pay attention to things like that. He was more invested in the land, in humanity, and in the simple pleasure of things like alcohol and sunshine. The wine they were drinking was a human one, in fact. Crowley had once joked that the only immortal thing humanity could make is alcohol, which aged and improved with every day that passed even long after its brewer had died. It wasn't an especially clever joke, but then he had been drunk at the time.

When dusk fell, dappling the sky in grey and gold, the wine had done its work. Crowley unwound a little, dropping his guard, and now even his tipsy neighbour could see the raw vulnerability about him. Newt had spotted the bulky ring on his finger earlier, and his eye kept drifting back to it. "Are you still married?" he asked, emboldened by the alcohol. 

Crowley's eyes dropped onto the ring, like he'd forgotten it was there. "I am," he said quietly. He swallowed, tearing his eyes away from it. "I don't think _he_ is, though."

His brow furrowed. "I don't think it works like that."

Crowley waved his hand dismissively, swatting his words from the air. "Shut up. I know what m'talking about," he said. Newt could tell the wound was still fresh, but he wasn't shying away from it. The conversation lulled for a moment.

"He sent you away, then," he said tentatively. He half expected to be thrown out just for bringing it up. Crowley shut his eyes for a moment, stung.

"Not really," he said, like a confession. He took a deep drag of the air. "Got chased off by an angry mob. S'a long story. Az — _He_ wanted me to stay, but... nah. He's better off without me."

"What was he like?" he said. Crowley stared at the far wall, as if a familiar Queen was about to bustle in, bemoaning the state of his court, to pour a glass of wine for himself and snuggle up to his side. A faint, nostalgic smile flickered across his lips. 

"Soft," he replied, with a tenderness Newt had never seen him wear. "He's the picture of aristocracy, everything neat as a pin, but beneath that, there's something else, like... like a scholar who's been given a sword. He's so clever, and so strong, but somehow that's not what he's made for. He takes those two things and becomes something more than that. He's... He's a guardian."

He looked over at Newt, and he wasn't surprised to see pity in his eyes. "You still love him, don't you?"

Crowley set his jaw. The perception was as sharp as a dagger, and just as agonising. He swallowed thickly, trying to back away from it, to shut it out before it began to echo in the cavernous loneliness of his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, feeling the tightness around his throat as tears welled, unbidden, in his eyes. 

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, wracked with a sob. He wiped his eyes, but the tears kept flowing. He sniffled. "I... I lost my best friend..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys I know this is probably the last thing you care about after what I just did to you all but LOOK at this crazy thing that happened to me recently 
> 
> https://mrgraveside.tumblr.com/post/627145426740658177/i-couldnt-make-this-shit-up-if-i-tried-i
> 
> Am I being threatened by the legit fae????? They’re clearly just as mad about the angst as you guys XD


	32. Autumn Rising

Aziraphale stared down the throne steps with jaded disinterest. Gabriel gestured to the Unseelie prisoner, thrashing wildly, restrained by two guards and a gag which kept him quiet. "Forgive the extreme measures, your majesty," he said, as if it was nothing more than a scuffed shoe. "He's, ah... quite vocal."

Shadwell's muffled curses and accusations barely attracted any attention, even from Aziraphale. He glared at his once-benefactor, enraged by his betrayal. He'd been all set to leave the realm when the guards had seized him. "And this is...?" asked Aziraphale in the same dull monotone he'd spoken in for days. 

Gabriel's smile slipped for a moment. "The Unseelie fae responsible for... for the scene in the plaza," he said hesitantly. Very few, even him, dared refer directly to Crowley's sudden exile. Aziraphale stared blankly at Shadwell. "Well? He's an unwelcome stranger. He caused an upheaval. We don't need a trial, just a declaration of his fate, and all this will be avenged."

Aziraphale sighed listlessly. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, and a few courtiers had whispered that he was beginning to lose weight. "The charge is treason. I'd have thought it was obvious," he said, refusing to look at him. He couldn't. He couldn't look that man in the eye, knowing what he'd done, for fear of what the heartbreak may drive him to. "Now get him out of my throne room, for heaven's sake. Put him somewhere I won't have to look at him again."

Gabriel stared. He'd expected a fit of rage, the very picture of the vengeful Queen that so many people feared, for him to obliterate Shadwell on the spot... It would have been a neat way of disposing evidence, to boot. Aziraphale just sat there. He was tired, always tired... Gabriel inclined his head, shooing the guards out of the room with Shadwell still screaming around his gag. If nothing else, life in the dungeon would silence him. The throne room doors closed behind them, and Gabriel turned back to his Queen with a pensive frown. The offer of revenge had fallen flat. 

"Can I... fetch you anything, sire?" he asked, clasping his hands together. Friendliness was a good fallback, he thought. "Food? A book?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid I've lost my appetite," he replied, slumped back against the throne like it was the only thing holding him upright. 

He tried to divert his thoughts that day. Anathema recommended that he take at least two days off per week, to recover his strength, before trying to work. He left the throne room, wandering through the halls without thinking about where he was going. The palace seemed so empty. Had it felt like this before he'd known Crowley? Had he really lived like this, once? 

It was Michael who found him, staring out of a library window. Aziraphale hardly noticed he was there at first. His mind had drifted from his body, unable to fully process the sight beyond the glass. A branch hung down into view from here, a branch which had once been plush with blossoms right up to the very tip. There were only a handful left. The rest of the wood was dark and bare, as close as the tree could come to an emaciated hand as the twigs splayed out over his city. He gave a start as Michael's hand brushed his shoulder.

"Oh. It's you," Aziraphale said.

Michael nodded, folding his hands behind his back as they stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the lands beyond. "I've been looking all over for you," he said. He eyed the branch. Aziraphale hadn't been outside to see the full extent of the deterioration that had taken hold since Crowley left. For the first time in his long reign, the branches of the tree were beginning to show through the blooms, like the ribcage of a starving animal. "I hear they caught the fae responsible."

"I am the fae responsible," he murmured. 

Michael blinked. "Pardon?"

Tension coiled in Aziraphale's body, making him fidget like a guilty man before the jury. "I did this," he said, looking down at his feet. "I was so desperate, so — so tempted by the idea that he loved me... I trapped him. He was my captive. I just didn't want to see."

He lay a hand on his shoulder. "Aziraphale," he said, stunned by his frankness. "Why do you torture yourself like this?"

He squirmed, avoiding his gaze. He stared wilfully out of the window, his heart jolting as a petal fell from one of the flowers there. He gulped, and swiped Michael's hand away. "You wanted to see me for a reason, yes?" he said. 

"Yes," he said, giving him his space. He'd given up the title of friend too long ago to claim his trust. "The stables just sent word. Azrael's foal has been born."

There was a split second when he feared that the news would send the Queen into an even more vicious downward spiral. Instead, he smiled. It was weak and dull, but a smile nonetheless. "Some good news, finally," he said, and reached out for his arm. "Walk me over, would you? I would very much like to meet the little tyke."

The walk was more strenuous than he'd expected. Michael could see it. He was sluggish, and a little out-of-breath before they'd even gone halfway. He gripped his arm like a lifeline. He took as much of his weight as Aziraphale would allow, and kept him talking, desperate to keep him from looking over his shoulder at the sorry state of his tree. He would see it, though, on the walk back. Michael was only delaying the inevitable, as they all were. Since they'd driven Crowley out, the Queendom had begun to wake up to the sickening realisation that the prophecy had misled them. The serpent had never intended to harm their Queen; it was the love lost between them which would strip the flowers from the tree. They had done this. Now... Now, their Queen was dying, day by day, petal by petal, as softly as summer faded into autumn. 

They could already see it around them. Green leaves were turning yellow at the edges, some already falling onto the woodland floor. Birds began to look southwards as the first hint of frost began to edge down from the mountains in the north, carried on the strong winds that kicked up dust and filled the streets with mournful howls. They stood on a precipice, a hair's breadth from a very steep fall. They were powerless to do anything but wait and bitterly hope that Aziraphale's strength would not fail him. 

The stable hands were thrilled to see Aziraphale on his feet, one of them more than anyone. "Aziraphale!" she cried, throwing her arms around his middle.

"Pepper, my dear, hello," he said, stroking her hair gently. She clung to him for a long moment before pulling back with a stern pout. 

"Mercury's been worried about you," she said, nodding over to the unicorn, who was stood at Azrael's stable door, peering in. She stared at him, silently adding _and so am I._ Aziraphale cringed, knowing he couldn't hide his failing health from her sharp eyes. She was young, but not stupid.

"I think he's more worried about his new family," he said, avoiding the subject. "Shall we say hello?"

She crossed her arms, knowing full well what he was doing. "I already did. It's a boy."

"Then you'll excuse me for a moment," he said, patting her shoulder lightly and making his way to the stable. Michael opened the door for him, letting him slip inside. He stepped away after that, having never been Mercury's biggest fan. He was a brute of a unicorn, not afraid to push people around (with the exception of Aziraphale).

He retreated to the other side of the yard, leaning on the fence which overlooked the fields. The sky was thick with clouds, blocking the cheerful yellow sunlight which usually shone on these pastures. He was surprised when the fence creaked, and someone climbed up beside him. He looked across. It was the little girl that Aziraphale had spoken to. 

"Pepper," she said very seriously, holding out her hand to shake. Too taken aback to argue, he shook it. 

"Michael."

"You're a duke. Why aren't you doing anything to fix this?" she said bluntly, gesturing broadly at the realm which was decidedly more dim and quiet than it had always been. 

He blinked, struggling for words. "Like you said, I’m a duke, not a nurse," he said, indignant. He drew himself up taller, but Pepper didn't back down. "If you have some secret way to restore our Queen's health, do enlighten me, but otherwise I suggest you remember your place."

She crossed her arms, arching a brow. "Crowley could do it," she said. "Find him. Bring him back."

"It's because of him that we're in this mess to begin with," he said, irritable... and a little unnerved by her dauntless attitude. 

"Don't be stupid. He's the only one who can change what's happening," she snapped, glowering fiercely until the duke began to shy away from her. "The prophecies said that he would be king, and he's not. That means he comes back, and he saves him, because there can't be a king without a Queen to crown him."

Michael opened his mouth, and closed it again. She was right. Bloody hell, she was right! How had they all missed that? He gripped her shoulders. "Listen, you know the lieutenant, don't you?" he said, and she nodded. "Good. Find her, tell her to meet me in the gatehouse this afternoon. Privately. It's very important that the other dukes don't find out about this, do you understand?"

She nodded gravely. "Better than anyone."

Azrael's stable was warm, cosy, and thick with the scent of hay. The black mare lay amongst the straw, letting the wall take her weight. Her eyelids sat low, heavy with exhaustion, and at long last she had regained her slim form. She whickered softly at Aziraphale. He smiled, kneeling beside her at a respectful distance from the foal near her belly. His coat was a dark, stormy grey, mottled with white along the flanks. The Queen watched in fascination as he tried to wobble to his feet, managing only a single step before falling flat into the soft bedding. Undeterred, he tried to stand again, to the same effect.

"Tenacious little thing, aren't you?" he said softly, not wanting to disturb the tender scene of mother and foal. The baby gave a shrill whinny of agreement, which Mercury echoed from the door. Aziraphale tilted his head, observing all the young horse’s little peculiarities. A small gold lump poked out of his forehead, which seemed to be the beginnings of a stubby horn, and his eyes were a darker shade of red than Azrael's, closer to burgundy than scarlet. "You know... I do believe you're the first of your kind."

The foal stumbled haphazardly back to Azrael, who turned her head to nuzzle the baby. Aziraphale pressed a hand over his heart, warmed by their affection. "I think I shall call you Genesis," he said. "For being the start of something new."

Azrael gave a short whinny of approval, and laid her head down. She was still tired. Giving birth was a strenuous process for any creature, or so he'd heard... not that he’d ever find out for himself. He reached over, gently stroking her head, soothing her into a restful doze. Genesis was happy enough to lie against his mother's side, still getting to grips with this strange new world he'd been tossed into. Soon, he'd be walking, trailing his parents through the pastures and meeting the rest of the herd. He sighed deeply. Crowley should have been here to see this. He'd made such an effort to reconcile with Azrael over her baby, and he loved his horses like they were his own children. With a painful twist in his chest, he thought of what an adoring father Crowley would have made — and maybe still would, with someone else. He wiped his eyes, feeling them grow damp again. He hoped he was happier now, wherever he was. 

He stood, dusting off his trousers, and made for the stable door. Horses were sensitive creatures, and he'd hate to foist his grief upon their young family. He stepped into the yard, where Michael was waiting for him. "Well?"

"A fine young horse," he replied, taking his arm. Two listening stable hands high-fived. "I've named him Genesis."

"Good name," he said, leading him toward the path. It was already been passed between stable-hands, ready for a nameplate to be painted. "I imagine it's done you good, to get some fresh air."

He hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, but I'm afraid I've spent far too long indoors. I'm starting to feel cold."

Michael gave a strained smile. So was he; cold winds were becoming more common by the day. "That's odd."

The Lieutenant was relieved to hear from Michael. She had no reason to trust the dukes, but Michael seemed to talk sense. He wanted to launch a search for Crowley. The quieter it could be conducted, the better. False hope could be a killing blow to their Queen. They sat for hours, making arrangements, listing guards who could be trusted to secrecy, and consulting maps. Crowley could be anywhere, in any realm. Roaming was the nature of the Dullahan, but if they could intercept him while he was at work, they could bring him back. By force, if necessary. 

Little did they know the fatal flaw of their plan. Crowley spent most of his days in bed, still aching, falling in and out of dreamless sleep. Slowly, his wounds began to close. He was lucky none of them had hit anything important. He doubted even Agnes Nutter would have been able to save his life if they'd punctured a lung. Newt visited regularly, bringing homemade broth which Crowley refused to eat at first, until he caught a whiff. It was warm, peppery and full of spices; irresistible while bedridden. 

"Not a word," he grumbled, clutching the flask in both hands. Newt smiled patiently.

"Not a word," he agreed. He was returning a favour that Crowley had extended plenty of times in the past. Newt had been created in this realm, by an incredible fluke of nature; he’d given Crowley a terrible shock when he first crawled out of the silt in the duck pond. Since then, the Dullahan begrudgingly took him under his wing, though he didn't like to admit it. He'd fed and sheltered him until he built a house of his own, but even then, he'd never stopped checking in, especially if Newt was ill. He claimed it was pure coincidence... _yes, the broth too — just eat it, will you?_

Aziraphale often cropped up in conversation. Crowley was only torturing himself, talking about him so much, but he couldn't help it. The memories seemed so much more vivid when he said them aloud. He was halfway through telling him about the wedding when Newt cut him off with a baffled frown. 

"What, you mean they didn't think you were important enough for a Queen?" he said. "But you're the Dullahan. You're dead important — er, no pun intended..."

He chuckled. "I know. Counts for nothing in politics, apparently," he said, slurping some more broth. "I married well above my station, far as they were concerned. I reckon Aziraphale liked it. Posh fae can't resist a bit of a rogue."

"I think I'm safe, then," he joked. Crowley arched a brow.

"Wouldn't count on it. They're sneaky bastards," he said. "One day you're friends, the next you're head-over-heels and leaping into harm's way for them."

He wrinkled his nose. "M'not really the rushing-into-danger type," he said. "D'you think they'd settle for an evening in by the fire?"

He smiled. "Probably," he said, then pointed a finger at him. "But risking life and limb is a good plan B."

Aziraphale's breath escaped him in flutters and gasps, his back arched as the sheets beneath him whispered against bare flesh. Crowley grasped his hips, his nails sinking into the fat. He leaned over him, close to his ear, murmuring something. Aziraphale wriggled, straining to hear. His breath stirred his ear, but still, his words didn't rise over a distant rumble, as if Aziraphale's head was underwater. 

"Crowley... my dear, I can't hear you," he said, panting, arching against him, yet finding nothing there. There was something distant and artificial about the skin beneath his hands. "I don't understand what you're saying..."

The murmur stopped, filled in with silence, which slowly gave way into to the rasp of the bedsheets as something moved on the bed. Only... that wasn't fabric rustling, was it? It was building, building with every moment, until the serpentine hiss in his ear was unmistakable. His breath hitched. "Crowley...?" 

"Angel..." he groaned.

Aziraphale jolted awake, his heart hammering. His hands curled into fists around the sheets. The memory of the dream lingered, and he wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse, hearing that voice again like Crowley was still in bed beside him. He sat up, pressing his hand against his warm cheek and clutching the blanket to his chest. The sensuality of the dream refused to leave him. Is... Is that what he'd missed out on? How would he know? Shaking his head, he threw the sheets aside, stepping out of bed. Trust him to want it only after he'd lost his husband for good...

He stumbled, his vision blacking out for a moment as he stood. That often happened these days. He paused, gripping his bedside table, waiting for the dizziness to clear. Then, he dressed himself, though it took longer than he'd have liked. His trembling hands slipped off his shirt-buttons, and it took a few attempts before his fuzzy mind could recall how to do up his bow-tie. As he stared in the mirror, his stomach turned at what he'd become. He was no longer the Queen that Crowley had known. His cheeks were sunken, his face sallow, and his clothes hung loose on him. He swallowed, trying to raise his chin and regain some of the proud regal image he'd had before. 

He turned to the door, and eyed the spiral staircase. When he'd added this feature, he'd never imagined he would one day be so weak that he feared to use them. Swallowing his nerves, he took his first careful step down, leaning heavily on the curved wall. That voice echoed in his head, almost as if Crowley was calling him from the top of the stairs, urging him back to bed. _Angel... Angel..._ He stopped for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. It was a cruel dream, he decided. It made him want to look over his shoulder, as if he'd see him there, leaning on the wall with that impish smile. Trying to banish the thought, he opened his eyes, and took another step.

His knee buckled. He wailed, falling forward; the world tilted, slamming hard into his face. His nose cracked. Pain lanced through his skull, drawing another incoherent noise from him as gravity dragged him over the steps. He came to a halt, dazed and winded. "Your majesty?" called the guard at the foot of the stairs. Aziraphale could only let out a pained cry in response. 

The guard cast aside her spear and ran up the stairs. She gave a strangled shriek at the sight of her Queen, fallen on the steps, trembling in shock. She knelt down, hesitantly taking his arm to help him back to his feet, but he was pure deadweight. His eyes were open, darting back and forth, but they didn't see anything. Blue blood flowed from his nose, which bent at completely the wrong angle. "O — Oh god... uh... forgive me for this, sire," she said, overstepping all the usual boundaries to loop his arm over her shoulder and haul him upright. "Just hold on. Hold on."

It happened very suddenly. A deluge of flowers dropped from the tree-branches all at once, to the horror of the public. The court was in disarray. Gabriel raised his voice over the throng, stood on the throne’s steps, to no effect. Nothing would calm them. It was only when the double-doors swung open, making way for Anathema, that they fell deadly silent. She strode through them, her hair pulled into a haphazard bun and a dash of blue blood still upon one hand. She didn’t bother getting up onto the throne’s steps; they were listening intently enough already. 

“Aziraphale is no longer medically fit to rule,” she said with no preamble. It was a bitter defeat for her. “He’s confined to his bed for the foreseeable future. He will take only one visitor at a time, under supervision.”

She turned to leave, when an indignant voice called her back. “What happened?” Gabriel demanded. 

She didn’t stop walking, or even deign to look over her shoulder as she spoke. “His husband was exiled,” she said, sweeping out of the room and back toward the infirmary. 

The dukes were left with the restless, whispering court. _She’s right... This all started when Crowley left us,_ they said. _Can he be found? Is he even alive?_ Gabriel curled his hands into fists. Sandalphon shared a worried glance with Uriel. He leaned toward her, murmuring under his breath. “Something must be done,” he said. “This can’t go on.”

“Really,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm as she looked at the unravelling chaos around them. Yet again, Gabriel failed to learn that shouting solved nothing in a time of crisis. The only one who could have rallied them together was bedridden, and not likely to return. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t you have anything more _meaningful_ to say?”

“Of course,” she said, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the end times, old friend.”

For the first time in her life, Deidre lit the fire to keep the house warm. Her husband fetched a blanket, tucking it around Adam’s shoulders as he cradled Dog to his chest. News of the Queen’s ill health was nailed to the town hall. For those closest to the palace, those who sometimes heard the terrible thump of an enormous flower on their roof, it was no surprise. They feared the worst. Some began to talk of fleeing the Queendom, only to be decried by their neighbours as faithless cowards.

Behind closed doors, though, the topic was not nearly so taboo. They loved their Queen, and their homes, but there would be little hope for those who stayed to the last. More branches became visible every day. The nearest other Seelie realm was hundreds of miles away, though, and the journey would be costly, in both life and coin. Whether they crossed through the cold, hostile Unseelie realms or the treacherous, mercurial human world in the thick of winter, the young and the weak would not survive. They would fall foul of starvation, raids or sickness long before safety came into view. Aziraphale’s citizens were not equipped for travel. They were a home-loving people, who adored their fruitful lands and the warm sun above all else. 

Deidre stoked the fire. Arthur closed the windows, closing the shutters to blot out the sheer darkness behind the glass. Starlight had abandoned them. “Can Dog sleep in my room tonight?” Adam asked quietly.

His parents shared a look. “Yes, I think... I think that’s a good idea,” said his father. No parent wanted to see their child live through such dark times, but he dearly prayed that Adam would at least live to see them end. “No harm in — ”

He was silenced by a deep, rolling growl and _crack_ which rent the somber silence hanging over the city. Dog whined. “Dad?” Adam cried, eyes wide, clutching his beloved pet. “What was that?”

Deidre dropped the bellows, rushing over to the armchair. She hushed him, stroking his hair, her heart breaking as she felt him tremble in her arms. “Thunder. It’s just thunder, sweetheart,” she said. Aziraphale’s magic was failing; he had held such things at bay for millennia. A flash of light speared through the slats in the shutters, startling them. “And that’s lightning. Rain will come soon.”

Adam pressed himself to her side, clutching his mother’s shirt. “What’s happening?” he said with a sniffle. His frightened tears began to dampen her shirt. 

“It’s a storm,” Arthur said, joining them on the chair, pulling them both into an embrace. Dog shivered in Adam’s arms as another clap of thunder wracked the air. “Nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a storm.”

Rain began to patter against the windows. Dark clouds hung over the waning blossom tree, a black mirror of what had once adorned the branches. As time rolled on, the rain grew heavier. For the first time in six thousand years, the full moon was swallowed by the night, and even dawn could not disperse the melancholy grey painting the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll just... go sit in the corner over there, shall I...?


	33. Apokalupsis

Michael's search for Crowley was fruitless. No one had seen or heard from the Dullahan for miles around, even in places where famine ravaged the human world or war claimed their lives. He simply wasn't there. He'd heard of a few dark riders travelling between settlements, but they just turned out to be cloaked humans. Crowley had vanished off the face of the earth. As Michael paced the gatehouse, unwilling to brave the frigid cold outside, he wondered if it was even possible to find an omen who didn't want to be found. He'd been an elusive figure even before he arrived in this realm, after all. Maybe he really had vanished over the horizon, never to return. 

The door rattled, making both him and the dejected Lieutenant look up. She frowned. "Wensleydale?"

He hurried up to her desk, and slammed a book down onto it. "Here. Page four-hundred-and-six," he said, panting, having just run all the way from the library. "The Dullahan's realm."

Michael flicked open the book. There was a short extract at the top of that page: _The Dullahan is a reclusive fae, living in the far-flung reaches of the world. The door to his home is shrouded in fog, hidden amongst the dead, in the cold and distant marches. Legend says it cannot be found by the living — or at least that any who dare trespass there do not stay living for long._ Michael huffed, handing it to the Lieutenant to read. 

"This is a fireside tale, child," he said, dragging a hand down his face. "It tells us nothing."

The Lieutenant sighed, and nodded, pushing it back over to Wensleydale. "I'm afraid he's right, Wensley. I'm sorry," she said with a tired smile. "Thank you, though. We know you want to help. We all do."

His expression soured, and he took the book back. "Of course. My mistake," he said, and turned away with a slump in his shoulders. 

He stepped onto the street, where a chill wind stung his eyes and kicked up dust from the road. People scurried back and forth across the quiet, abandoned streets, layers of thin cloaks pulled tight around them. No one had been equipped for the cold. He ran down the street, pulling his hood low. A fine rain spat from the heavens constantly; it had never stopped, not since the storm. Petals littered the ground, damp with rain and limp against the stone. So many fell every day that the guards had given up on clearing them away every morning. They waited until the end of the week, and did their best to clear the streets. The petals on rooftops and gardens simply lay there, and were allowed to rot. Precious few still clung to the tree. 

"Well?" Brian said as Wensleydale rejoined them in his living room. 

"They think it's just a story. They won't do anything," he said, slumping down into a chair. Pepper scoffed in disgust. 

"Let's hope Adam gets more sense out of Aziraphale," she said, leaning on her fist. Wensley startled.

"He's gone to see him?" he said in astonishment.

"Aziraphale sent for him this morning," Brian said with a jaded shrug. "He's only allowed one visitor at a time. Maybe he'll ask for us next."

Gabriel was stunned. His Queen was dying, and with him, his last chance to be king. He sat in his office for hours, staring at the wall, unable to move. He knew Michael was looking for Crowley. Despite his attempts at subtlety, word had reached him. The Dullahan may be the only thing that could turn the tide in their favour, but Gabriel had little to gain from the return of the so-called rightful king. The shadows of his office flickered and swam, never waning, not with only weak grey light filtering through the window. There was a knock on the door. 

"Letter for you, sir."

He held out his hand without speaking. The servant handed it to him, and quickly hurried away again. A dark and unpredictable mood had overtaken the duke of late, and nobody wanted to linger near him. He looked down at the envelope, sealed with a familiar crest. He hummed, and checked the address. It was definitely for him, not the Queen, though he'd have opened it either way. Direct correspondence from Prince Beelzebub was too exploitable to pass up. 

_Duke Gabriel,_

_My deepest pity for your ailing Queen. We regret that one of our own noble race would do this to such an upstanding monarch. However, even in times of great challenge, opportunities may present themselves. Our Queendom is the second-oldest in this part of the world, after your own, and our royal line is secure. With that in mind, we have a proposition for you, one you would be a fool to refuse..._

The nurse opened the door, and ushered Adam into Aziraphale's room. At first, Adam didn't recognise his Queen. Pillows propped him into a sitting position, since he clearly hadn't the strength to do it himself. His eyes were sunken. His body was wasting away, his pallid skin clinging to bare bone. Bloodstained cloths sat on the bedside table. He slowly lifted his eyelids, the tiniest of smiles flickering onto his emaciated face. 

"Adam," he wheezed, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He patted the bed. "Come here, my boy."

He edged closer, wide-eyed in horror. He hopped up onto the bed, and grasped Aziraphale's hand with both of his own, shuddering as he felt every bone and sinew under the skin. "I miss you," he said, his voice cracking. "We all do. Even Dog."

"And... how brave you've been, without me," he said, short of breath, rubbing his thumb over the back of Adam's hand. "You'll have to be much braver than that, soon. Can you... Can you do that for me, Adam?"

He swallowed thickly, and shook his head. "I don't want to be brave. I want you to be okay again."

Aziraphale blinked, welling up. "I know. I am so sorry, Adam... I... I wish I could have been stronger for you," he said weakly. A tear rolled down the boy's cheek. "I am glad to have known you, my dear, but... but now... it's time to say goodbye."

He shook his head fervently. "No. Stop it," he said, wiping his eyes furiously. "You can't die."

"Adam..." he said softly, imploring him. The boy fell silent, hanging his head. "There's a letter on the table there. Take it."

Adam reached across, picking up the envelope. It had a black wax seal, stamped with the royal crest. A name was written in a shaking hand on the back. "What is it?" he said, running his fingers over the wax.

"A lifeline," he said, struggling for breath after so much talking. The nurse made to shoo Adam out, but the Queen shook his head, halting her. He took a moment to catch his breath. "My friend Mary will take you into her realm. J — Just show her the letter. It's an Unseelie realm, but you... you will do well, I'm sure. It covers you, and... your friends, and all your families."

Adam stared at him in disbelief. "We're not running away."

"No, you're not," he said, nodding. "You're seeking asylum. It's your only hope, Adam."

"I can't just leave you!" he protested, tears finally breaking their banks to roll down his cheeks. Aziraphale winced, unable to cope with the confrontation.

"You must," he said, his face crumpling with regret. "Please. I... I can't be responsible for your death, Adam. I can't."

He gritted his teeth, staring down at the letter. "You won't be," he said with quiet determination. 

Gabriel swept into the crowded conference room, groomed to perfection, with a triumphant smirk. The court murmured uneasily. When Gabriel had called them all together, they'd feared that Aziraphale had passed away very suddenly. Somehow, his smile was even worse. Michael watched him carefully, trying to recall if there had been any developments in the last few hours. Surely not. He braced himself for accusations to start flying instead; Gabriel would be looking to take control, even when it all came crashing down.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming on such short notice," Gabriel said, gleefully taking the head of the table — a seat usually reserved for Aziraphale. Michael fidgeted uneasily. "I have excellent news."

"Has the Dullahan been found?" someone piped up. He silenced them with a glare.

"No. It's high time we abandoned all hope of Master Crowley's return. He abandoned us, and left the Queen to die," he said unwaveringly. "We’re the only Seelie realm for miles around. We are alone, vulnerable to pillaging and conquest without a Queen to protect us."

"I thought you said you had _good_ news..." someone muttered. 

"It's time we considered our options. Our only allies are weak and young realms, ones we never thought we'd have to rely on. We must take drastic action to secure our future, and I have the answer we've been looking for," he said proudly. He sat tall in his chair, lapping up the attention, in total command of the room. "Prince Beelzebub has graciously offered to save us. They’re willing to claim the throne, sustain our realm, and appoint me as their regent to rule on their behalf."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Michael slammed his hand on the table, and stood. "No," he said fiercely. "It is not for you to decide the fate of our people."

Gabriel spread his arms. "Then who will, Michael?" he said evenly. "Last I checked, our Queen is dying, and his consort deserted him. We are being offered a chance to rule ourselves, as free fae, while Beelzebub awaits the throne in their homeland."

"Anyone who believes that is a fool. We’re being offered a hostile Queen and a puppet king," he snapped. The surrounding nobles gasped and muttered, shrinking away from the conflict. 

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You would let our Queendom die in the name of petty pride?" 

"Our Queendom will die if _you_ take the crown which rightfully belongs to the Dullahan. This is not what Aziraphale stood for," he said, raising his chin. His own words seemed alien to him, yet painfully true. He drew a deep breath. "I will not stay in a Queendom which sold its soul to survive — and woe betide any fae who stands with you. You think Crowley will show mercy, if he hears what became of the Queen he loved?"

Gabriel finally stood, facing Michael across the table. The room flinched. "Loved? You overestimate him, Michael," he said, raising his voice. "You know what the prophecies said. The serpent will destroy the Queen, and so he did. It's for us to secure our future now."

He set his jaw. "Aziraphale burnt those prophecies for a reason."

Gabriel sat back down at the table, as if he'd already won. "And look where it left him," he said, folding his hands. "Bedridden, sobbing himself to death."

Michael was speechless. He looked down the table, and the nobles meekly avoided his gaze. No one spoke up to defend him, or their Queen. They'd given up hope. Gabriel's words stung them, he could see it in their eyes, but he was offering them the first solution that wasn't to die on the road to the next Seelie Queendom. Michael curled his lip. 

"Cowards, all of you," he spat, turning toward the door. "I will have no part in this."

Adam didn't take the letter to his mother, like Aziraphale wanted. He retreated into the gardens to sit beneath the pear tree and sob until his heart went numb in his chest. It was only the sound of Brian’s voice that eventually forced him to lift his head. "Adam?" he said, kneeling beside him. "What's the matter? Is it that bad, up there...?"

He nodded toward the palace, and Adam wiped eyes, nodding. "He's dying,” he rasped, his voice thick with grief. 

He hung his head. "Well. Yeah. No one wants to say it, though, do they?" he said, shrugging his shoulders with a somber downturn in his lips. His bottom lip wobbled. "My parents talk like it's some big secret, but I'm not stupid."

"No, they're the stupid ones," he said with a sudden burst of anger, sitting up. He waved the letter under his nose. "He gave me this. Wants us all to run away and live in a different Queendom."

Brian grimaced. "No way!"

"That's what I said. We can't leave," he agreed. "When Michael finds Crowley, then there'll be no point anyway. We'll just have to come right back."

Brian winced. "Um. About that... there was an announcement just now, in the square," he said, wringing his hands together. "They reckon Beelzebub is going to be our next Queen. Michael's organising a travelling band for anyone who doesn't want to stay anymore. I think Wensley’s parents are planning to go. Pepper's too."

Adam gawked. "That's stupid!"

"Yeah, but what can _we_ do?" he said, a defeated slump in his shoulders. "No one listens to us, Adam. We're kids."

He paused. "Crowley would listen," he said. Brian perked up, recognising Adam's idea-making voice. He pushed himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with a new sense of purpose. "Get Pepper and Wensley. Tell them to bring their coats, and don't tell their parents. I have a plan."

Azrael was almost asleep in her stable when she heard voices outside. She lifted her head, staying deadly silent. Genesis slept on by her belly. He could now stand, walk and trot with confidence, and already proved that he'd inherited his mother's incredible speed. He had boundless energy. She loved him dearly, as did Mercury, and lamented the cold grey world he'd been born into. She wished he could've seen the pastures as she'd known them, where she'd grown to love the way the sun turned the grass to gold, and glittered on Mercury's mane.

The stable door creaked open. A small silhouette appeared in the gap, outlined by lamplight. "Azrael?" Pepper whispered. "C'mere, girl. We need you."

Genesis lifted his head, roused by the noise. Azrael stood, nudging him along with her out the door. The night was frigid, and the foal began to shiver immediately. Pepper lowered a loose rope over his neck, carefully urging him toward Mercury's stable. Azrael watched her like a hawk, and Genesis looked over his shoulder with a plaintive whinny. His mother replied with a comforting rumble. 

"This seems mean," Brian said, his arms crossed, shivering. "Is he going to be okay without his mum?"

Wensley nodded. "Mercury'll look after him," he said as Pepper closed the door behind Genesis. They could hear the mildly surprised whickering of a tired unicorn inside, who unquestioningly welcomed his son into his warm stable. 

Azrael looked between the children, posing a silent question. Adam took the lead. "Can you take us to Crowley?"

She snorted, and lowered herself to ground level, tossing her head as if to say _I thought you'd never ask._ Adam clambered onto her back first, followed by the other three. She stood up, taking their weight with ease. "Hold on tight," Adam said, gripping Azrael's mane. Brian held on to Adam, and Pepper to Brian, and finally Wensley to Pepper. 

Azrael turned, pawing at the ground, and cantered free from the yard. Her hooves clattered on the path, turning to thunder as the stone faded into hard-packed earth. The wind whipped Adam's hood down from his head, and he couldn't help but grin as the cold air sent a thrill through him. Azrael never faltered, cantering past the city gates without giving them a second glance, skirting around the city walls. Guards shouted from the parapets. Wensley ducked his head, nervous of getting shot at. No arrows flew — or if they did, Azrael was far too fast, and blended too well with the endless black of the night. 

Her hooves cleaved the earth as she ran, scattering clods of mud and dry leaves as she wove through the trees. Every twist and turn threatened to dislodge one of the children. They clung tight to her, gripping as hard as they could with their legs. Riding bareback at this pace was no simple task. She puffed and panted, following her instincts. She stormed through the fairy ring so quickly that they barely noticed the change; the cold shadow of their home bore a striking resemblance to the bare human world. Adam gasped, seeing a human village flash past in an instant. At long last, he'd achieved his dream, and crossed beyond the borders of his homeland... He only wished he could bring himself to be happier about it. 

Aziraphale's voice had paled into a breathless whisper. Anathema had healed his broken nose, but it still bled intermittently, and he had no more strength to reach for a tissue. He simply sat there and let it happen, until the nurse came to check on him. His breaths came and went in a shallow, ebbing rhythm. He was starting to lose feeling in the tips of his fingers, and the ticking of the clock was the only thing left to reassure him that he wasn't dead yet. Michael visited him, briefly. He'd held his hand, and Aziraphale could tell that something had happened downstairs, something that Michael wasn't willing to say. 

"I never thought that it would end like this," Michael said, shying away from Aziraphale's glassy-eyed stare. He'd asked Anathema how much longer he might hold on for, and she'd stiffly told him to say his goodbyes sooner rather than later. "Six thousand years I've been a duke to you. I... I was your friend, once, too. I wish I hadn't lost sight of that along the way."

A tear rolled down Aziraphale's cheek. He couldn't respond. He could only twitch his fingers slightly, trying to comfort him. Michael rubbed his eyes. "You deserved a better end than this, old friend," he said. He swallowed thickly. "And I will keep my promise. Even after you're gone, I will protect everything you created, to my dying breath. I owe you that much."

The edge of Aziraphale's mouth twitched into what could have been a smile. Michael blinked back his tears, and leaned over to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. "You were loved, Aziraphale," he whispered. "You will always be loved."

The Them had been riding for hours, with no end in sight. "Is she going the right way?" Brian shouted over the wind. They had seen nothing but barren moorland for ages. 

"How should we know?" Pepper replied, giving him a stout punch on the arm. They were all aching, exhausted and starving, but their single-minded purpose had not wavered. 

"Uh, guys?" Wensley said, pointing dead ahead. "I think we're close."

They stopped their bickering, seeing a bank of fog rear high over their heads and stretch endlessly in either direction. Adam's jaw dropped. Azrael tossed her head, giving a shrill whinny of delight, and dove headlong into the mist. It engulfed them, turning the moor from a vast to claustrophobic in an instant. Pepper gasped in shock as Azrael veered sharply to avoid a mound of earth, only for more to leap from the mist like eerie watchers. Crows barked in the distance. 

"Burial mounds!" Wensley cried, pointing at the hills as they raced by. "The final resting places of ancient humans."

"And we're heading right for one!" Pepper shrieked. Adam cried out, desperately tugging at Azrael's mane as she bolted straight for the shadowy hole at the foot of the hill. Their screams joined the crows' choir for a split second, before being abruptly cut short, swallowed by the burial mound. 

Azrael's hooves skidded on the soil as she came to a halt. The Them finally dared to open their eyes again, finding themselves on an open hilltop, with a sprawl of wilderness in every direction. "Look!" Brian said, pointing. In the cottage garden at the foot of the incline, a thin redheaded figure moved back and forth between the flowerbeds. He was intent on his work, too much to notice the newcomers above him. Adam slid down from Azrael's back, followed swiftly by the others, as they charged down the slope. 

"Crowley! Crowley!" they shouted, falling over themselves to reach the cottage. 

He looked up from threatening the pansies, a deep frown on his face. His jaw dropped. "What the bloody hell are you lot doing here?" he said, tossing his kitchen knife aside and running to meet them at the gate. His hair had grown well past his shoulders, falling in red waves down his back. "How did you — _Azrael?"_

She whinnied, giving him a firm push on the arm. Before he could ask after her foal, he felt Wensleydale grasp his hand. "You have to come back."

He flinched, snatching his hand back. "Then you've come a long way for nothing," he said, shaking his head. He hadn't spent this long projecting onto his plants and repressing his emotions just to have that wound torn wide open again. "Please tell me someone knows you're here."

"Who cares?" Pepper said. "You're not listening. You _have_ to come back."

He sighed, hanging his head. "Look, kids," he said, swallowing back his emotions, crouching at their level and trying to imagine how he could safely take them home without getting caught. "I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye, but... I couldn't stay there, okay?"

"Cause you're afraid," Adam said, crossing his arms, deeply unimpressed. Crowley twitched. No sympathy there, then.

"Of course I was bloody afraid. I could've died," he said, harsher than he should've. He got to his feet again, his shoulders tight with tension. "But I didn't just do it for myself, thanks very much. Aziraphale deserves better than some nobody who stumbled into his realm by mistake. Maybe you'll get it when you're older — though you'd better hope you don't — that sometimes, if you love someone... it's kinder to let them go."

He breathed heavily in the silence that followed, as if he’d just laid his heart bare before a jury — though he didn’t know what he was on trial for. Four pairs of eyes glared up at him. He huffed, turning away from them with his fists clenched. "You broke his heart, Crowley," Brian said quietly. 

It undercut all his defences. His anger crumbled, a tremor running through him as he suppressed an ugly sob. "Yeah," he breathed, sucking in a deep breath. "But no-one ever died of a broken heart. He'll move on."

They shared glances of sheer disbelief. "You mean... you don't know?" Pepper said, a cold realisation dawning, one that put all of Crowley's choices into perspective. 

"What?" he said, his voice thick with emotion. 

Adam held up a sealed envelope. Bemused, Crowley snatched it, recognising the royal seal on the front. The same one was emblazoned on his wedding ring. He cracked it, unfolding the message within. The writing was barely legible, written in a shaking hand. It dredged up a needling memory of Newt's history books, describing the signatures at the foot of confessions signed after days of visceral torture. "What is this?" he said, dread taking root in his gut, seeing Aziraphale's blotted, wobbly signature. "Why is he requesting asylum for you? What happened to him?"

"You left, Crowley," Wensleydale said, fixing him with a steady gaze. "And Queens _can_ die of a broken heart."

The parchment slipped from Crowley’s fingers. Horror burnt every nerve, sending bolts of adrenaline through his system and shutting down his lungs. No, no, no... This couldn't be happening. Why hadn't Aziraphale told him? Why hadn't he — ? His own words echoed in his head, cutting him off mid-thought: _Sometimes, if you love someone, it's kinder to let them go._ Aziraphale had chosen to love and to lose, all because Crowley had let him believe that he didn't want to stay. He'd made the ultimate sacrifice, without so much as a complaint. He'd done it for Crowley. He'd done it for love.

"He's dying," Pepper cut in angrily, punching Crowley’s arm with all her pent-up grief. He flinched. "You made this mess. Now you have to fix it!"

Crowley startled back to reality. He could have wallowed in self-pity, hating himself, wondering if Aziraphale could ever forgive him... He'd done enough of that. Aziraphale needed him, and he wasn't going to fail him a second time. He put his fingers to his lips, giving a sharp whistle. Hoofbeats thundered around the side of the hill, bringing three dark horses into view. He turned, grasping Adam by the shoulders. 

"There's a house on the other side of the orchard. Ask the fae there for whatever you need, you can trust him," he said, hurling himself onto Sable's back the moment he was within range. He gave him a swift kick, galloping up the hill without pausing to talk. "I'll see you at home!"


	34. A New Thing

Sable ran. Sable ran like he'd never run before, breaking from the fog-bank within seconds. Crowley's fingers tangled in his mane, his grip like steel, hunkered low on his back to let the air rush over him. His eyes were set on the horizon. Aziraphale was just on the other side, waiting for him. 

"Come on, Sable. Do _better!"_ he barked over the whistling wind. With a desperate cry, the horse lengthened his stride, pushing himself harder. They passed out of the moorland, ploughing straight through a river without breaking stride. The water cooled his burning flanks. 

The wind pinned Crowley's hair back and stung his eyes, but not nearly enough. With a snarl, he leaned forward, hissing into Sable's ear. "Listen to me. You are a _Dullahan's horse._ I've had you from a foal," he said through gritted teeth. "You will _not_ fail me. Don't even think of it. Now... Go. _Faster!"_

Sable shrieked — a long, shrill, wraithlike scream — and he did as he was told. His hooves tore the earth as the countryside smeared into streaks of colour and sound. Sparks spat from his nose. The embers caught in his mane, glowing along his body... He took a flying leap, clearing a caravan in the road; fire ignited in his fur, setting him ablaze from mane to tail with a roar of heat. He hit the ground running, trailing flames amid his master's maniacal laughter. 

The two humans he'd leapt over lay flat on the dirt road, trembling. The man — a burly, scarred thief — looked over at his sister. "Er... was that good luck or bad luck, d'you suppose?"

She swallowed, staring at the pinprick of burning darkness already vanishing into the distance. "Well. We ain't dead."

"Aye," he said. "... a warning, then?"

"Don't be an idjit, Clyde," she snapped, pushing herself up off the dirt. She hesitated. "Though perhaps we could ease off the stealin' a small bit..."

He nodded tersely, getting back into their caravan. "For once, Morgan, I think ya could be right."

Sable stopped for nothing. In a blaze of heat and light, he stormed through forests, fields and valleys alike, never lingering long enough for the fire to catch upon the earth. Crowley held on for dear life, thinking only of his angel. The flames daren't touch him. The war raging inside him was far more fearsome; what if he was too late? What he arrived only in time to see him slip away? He didn't know what would be worse. His eyes streaming, he looked ahead, seeing a familiar woodland rapidly approaching. Warlock's village flashed past. The trees flickered by, and he was sure he saw the fairy ring pass beneath Sable's hooves, but it couldn't have done. He didn't recognise this place.

Sable galloped on, oblivious to how deeply wrong his surroundings were. This was the same forest where Crowley had walked with the Them, with Warlock, with Aziraphale, but... it wasn't. The trees were bare, each spindly branch silhouetted against a dismal grey sky. The fruit was gone, rotted into the earth. The birds were silent. The meadow-grass was dry, devoid of flowers, threatening to catch light with each burning stride of Sable's hooves. With a lurch of horror, Crowley's eyes finally fell upon the vast shape of the blossom-tree, looming closer with every moment. It was barren. Each enormous limb reached into the sky, splitting the clouds like a bolt of black lightning, frozen in time. 

"No..." he said, choked on emotion. He shouted for Sable to go faster, but he had nothing left in him. He gave a plaintive cry, passing beneath the city gate as the flames began to flicker and die. His hooves struck sparks against the cobbles. The streets were abandoned, lifeless, save for the guards who scattered from Sable's path. Cries of fear and astonishment rippled like crow-caws in the air, the only sound in a dying world. 

Crowley threw himself down from the saddle and hit the ground running. Sable collapsed at the foot of the palace steps, wrung-out and utterly debilitated as the last of the flames faded into nothing. His breaths came short and shallow. Someone appeared by his side, shouting for help. Sable ignored them, resting his head on the steps as the vast palace doors closed behind his master. Whatever had been so important to him, he hoped he found it. His red eyes began to stray, dark spots swimming over his vision. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a single white blossom, swaying in the wind high above his head. 

The palace was dim and unfamiliar. The warm light was gone, and Crowley's frantic footfalls echoed through the halls. "Aziraphale!" he screamed, throwing open doors as he came to them. The drawing room was empty, and the dining hall. "Aziraphale, you idiot! Where the hell are you?"

He ran, sprinting up stairs and wrenching open door after door. He couldn't think straight. What if he'd run straight past the right door without even knowing? "Angel, I can't — I can't find you!" he cried, swallowing hard, on the verge of tears. "... Aziraphale?"

A tingle ran down his spine. His breath hitched, feeling that deep inexorable pull toward a soul on the boundary of life and death. "Angel!" he shrieked, sprinting down the hall. He was almost too late. He could feel it, that sickening sixth sense, ticking down the seconds to the very end... It led him to the spiral staircase. Crowley kicked himself as he raced up it — of _course_ he'd be in his bloody room! 

He burst in, shocking the nurse to her feet. There was a lump amongst the sheets, one that looked too small and weak to be Aziraphale. He elbowed the nurse aside, pushing her out the door despite her protests, slamming it in her face without taking his eyes off the bed. He edged closer. For a moment, he didn't think he was breathing. Then, there it was, a minute rise-and-fall beneath the sheets. He knelt by his bedside.

"Angel," he said, his mouth dry. Aziraphale was a deathly pallor, limp and unconscious amongst the pillows. His hand hung off the edge of the mattress. A tear rolled down Crowley's face as he took it, running his thumb down the back of his hand. "Angel, wake up. Please. For me?"

The silence weighed heavy over them. "How many people d'you think have ever made the Dullahan beg, hm?" he said, squeezing his hand. He attempted a smile, as if hoping he'd return it. "I'm sorry. Whatever... whatever you thought of me, I'm sorry... oh come on, work with me, I'm apologising here."

Aziraphale's eyelids flickered. Crowley took a breath, leaning up, clinging to that glimmer of hope. "Aziraphale! Look, if you hear bells tolling, don't move. Don't. You don't listen to them, you listen to _me_ ," he said, desperation flaring into severity. "I'll make a deal with you. You stay here with me, and I'll stay here with you, for the rest of my life. I'll never leave you again."

Aziraphale's eyes slid open a little more, revealing a sliver of blue. Crowley wet his lips, and fell back on his last resort. "Abel," he said, recalling the name Aziraphale had whispered in his ear on that heart-wrenching day when they'd said goodbye: his true name. "Abel Zion Fell, come back to me."

Aziraphale had heard the tolling of a bell. A black gate flickered in his mind's eye, distant yet somehow within reach, sinister yet inviting... Something touched his hand, gripping it. The sensation seemed familiar. He tried to open his eyes to look, but fatigue weighed his eyelids shut like stones on a lakebed. Someone was here. Where exactly _here_ was, he wasn't certain. He didn't think he was really anywhere at that moment. He was dying, perhaps already dead, and that begging, pleading voice was so much more attractive than the toll of the bells. He tried to reach for it, to find it, to respond... The more he searched, the clearer it became. 

_Abel... Abel Zion Fell, come back to me..._

Only one person, in this world and beyond, knew his true name. Hearing it shocked him like a lightning-strike to the chest. He drew a breath, one deeper and stronger than any he had drawn for days, and with it came a hauntingly familiar scent. His heart bucked in his chest, kick-started by a flutter of love. Feeling began to return in his fingertips, and he gave them a weak, experimental wiggle. With a moan and a great force of will, Aziraphale opened his eyes. 

There he was. Crowley, with waves of auburn hair hanging down past his shoulders and wide yellow eyes, glittering like diamonds. "C... Crowley..." he said, straining his disused vocal cords. 

"Hey, angel," he whispered with a helplessly vulnerable smile. He blinked back tears.

Aziraphale swallowed, his eyes dragging themselves slowly around the room. "A...Afraid I've — I've rather made a mess of things," he rasped. He squinted at him. "You... you're here to... take me away, I suppose...?"

Crowley's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"

His jaw worked up and down, speechless. Aziraphale thought he'd returned not as his husband, but as the Dullahan, to guide him through death and beyond. He shook his head. "No," he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own, rubbing it in an attempt to bring back some warmth. "You're alive. You’re not going anywhere."

He frowned, bemused by this information. "Oh..." he said. "Then... why...? Didn't you... want to go home?"

He shook his head, choked up. "Nah. Changed my mind. Stuff happened," he said, hesitant to make any excuses for himself. "I thought you'd have been better off without me. Turns out I was wrong, eh?"

Even having just done a ding-dong-ditch at Death’s Door, Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Idiot," he said, and Crowley grinned hysterically, streaming with tears. “I would be angry, if... if I wasn’t so pleased to see you...”

“Hey... I made you a promise just now, y’know,” he said. He wet his lips. “I promised to stay. If you want me to, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Aziraphale hummed weakly in acknowledgement. He still wasn’t completely lucid, and the world felt dreamlike, pushed through a strange filter of exhaustion and dehydration. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“I ran away,” he said, cringing at the memory. “I damn near killed you.” 

Aziraphale blinked slowly. He felt Crowley’s hand in his own, his familiar touch, something so precious it seemed unreachable not so long ago. He was back. There was only one thing Aziraphale had to do now, to welcome him home again.

"I forgive you, Crowley."

Michael burst into the conference room. "Is it true?" he said, breathless, a grin tugging at his face. "He's back?"

Gabriel looked up with a sour expression. A nurse sat at the table, wringing her hands together nervously as politicians plied her with questions on every side. "It appears so," Gabriel said tautly. “Crowley has finally decided to come crawling back.”

"The Queen was hours away from passing, if that," the nurse piped up, looking between the two dukes. "If the last flower doesn't fall by dusk, then... then we might be saved."

"How fortuitous," said Gabriel through gritted teeth. Michael urged the nurse to her feet, telling her report to Anathema then take the day off, with a triumphant glance at Gabriel. 

"You should write to Prince Beelzebub," Michael said, casting a gloating look across the court who had refused to heed his warnings. "Our throne does not belong to them."

Gabriel took a step forward, looming over him. "Don’t look so smug," he said. “This won’t end with him. You have no idea what’s coming. He should have stayed away."

“Or maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to betray your Queen,” he shot back, refusing to back down. 

Deidre was only half-aware of the commotion in the city, after Crowley's grand entrance on a flaming horse. The poor creature had been taken to the stables for rest and water, having been worked half to death (and then half again) by its master, in his haste. She and Arthur were more concerned with the whereabouts of their son. They first noticed his empty bed that morning, cunningly disguised with pillows to make a lump beneath the sheets. Dog curled beneath his bed, crying. The little hound trailed by Deidre's heels as she ran to Brian's family home, only to run into his mother on the way. She’d already been to Pepper and Wensleydale’s house in a fruitless search. Adam and all his friends had vanished in the night, without warning.

The four sets of parents scoured the city, asking whoever would listen if they had seen their children. It was only when Deidre came to the gatehouse that one sleepy-looking guard recalled the night before. "You know, we did see a horse outside the city walls last night," she said. "The Dullahan's mare, I'm sure. Red eyes. Can't miss 'em, and... we thought we saw children on its back, but we wrote it off, thought it was the shadows playing tricks." 

That was it. It was hard to deny now, as Deidre sat on a chair at home with Dog curled up in her lap. She stroked his fur, grounding herself. Adam and his friends had taken it upon themselves to find Crowley... and if she didn't know any better, it had worked. Crowley had returned and, as the sun began to set, the last blossom upon the tree held firm to its branch. Pride surged in her chest. Her son had taken a stand, and done what no-one else could. He'd saved the world. Now, she just needed him to come home, for some warm cocoa, blankets, and lots of very tight hugs. 

The home felt empty without him. Dog wouldn't tolerate being left alone for any length of time, trailing either her or Arthur around the house with his ears drooping. He missed Adam terribly. By around ten o'clock that evening, there was a knock on the door. Arthur glanced at his wife, who'd nodded off on her armchair with Dog on her chest. As he passed her on his way to the door, he picked up a blanket and draped it over her. 

Arthur opened the door, and his eyes immediately fell to the small figure on the step. "Hi dad," said a very sleepy Adam Young, rubbing his eyes.

Arthur gave a jubilant cry, scooping him into his arms. He held him tightly until Adam began to squirm, and set him back down to hold him by his shoulders. "You silly boy, Adam. What were you thinking, running off to find the Dullahan's realm, of all places? You could have been very hurt!"

He gave a lopsided grin. "Crowley made it back, then?"

He couldn't suppress a laugh at his audacity. "Yes, he did. Now come inside, let's get you warmed up."

"Wait! What about Newt?" he said, to his father's confusion. He pointed down the path, at the silhouette who'd been trying to sneak off through the garden gate. He froze, and hesitantly turned as Adam's father approached with the lamp from the porch. 

"Um... hello," Newt said with a nervous wave. Arthur kept a wary distance. He was obviously Unseelie, with a newt on his head from which he no doubt derived the name. "Sorry. Um. I just... it didn't seem responsible, letting four children travel all the way here on their own, so I... I came along. I'll just be, um. Going. Now."

He tried to make his escape again, to no avail. Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

"Um... home?" he said.

"On what horse?" he said. The road was abandoned, without even the telltale snuffle of an animal anywhere in the dark. Newt deflated slightly. Azrael was quick to trot off around the wall — to the stables, he guessed, and her foal — and Carmine and Snowy had followed without question. "Come inside. We have a spare bed."

"Really?" he said, wringing his hands together. "It's just — I didn't think that — um — that the Unseelie were really very welcome..."

"They are in this house," he said, ushering him toward the door. "Come on. My wife will want to thank you for looking after our boy."

Aziraphale awoke, free from the bone-deep ache which had haunted him for weeks. The room was dim, and the sun had not yet risen. It took a few seconds for him to remember yesterday: Crowley crouched beside his bed, holding his hand, anchoring him back into life. How odd, for a death-omen... Another taunting dream, no doubt. It hadn’t really happened.

He rolled over with a pained sigh, about to shut his eyes and wait for the heartbreak to set in again, and his jaw dropped. Crowley slept beside him, on top of the blankets. Aziraphale smiled in disbelief. Ever the gentleman, not that he'd admit it... He'd have thought Crowley had spent enough nights in this bed to know that he didn't need to be invited back. He reached out, running his fingers over Crowley’s hand, giddy to finally touch him again.

Crowley’s eyes slid open, revealing his slitted pupils. "Thought I'd felt you moving around," he said softly. "You alright?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said. His limbs were still weak, and the sudden return of his lucidity made his head spin. 

Crowley brushed a blond curl back off his forehead. "You can talk without getting breathless now," he said, running his fingers down his sunken face, his brow creased with concern. "You still look like you could use a ten course meal and a big slice of cake, though."

"Ooh, is that a promise?" he said with a wry smile. Crowley mirrored it, and kept stroking his hair. "I think I'm in dire need of a bath first, though, I must say. Would you be a dear and help me up?"

Crowley was up and on the other side of the bed, offering his arm, quicker than Aziraphale could turn his head. He took the Queen's weight, reduced though it was, and pulled him to his feet. His knees buckled, and he pitched forward into Crowley's arms. "Oh dear," he said, cringing. He cleared his throat, grasping Crowley's shoulders in an attempt to keep himself upright. Humiliation burnt in his chest. "Um. Perhaps not today, then. If I can’t even stand, then I can't very well wash myself."

"What if I helped?" he said. Aziraphale blinked.

"In... in the bath?" he said. Crowley nodded, with no hint of flirtation or teasing in his eyes. It was a genuine offer of aid, for dignity's sake. "Well... I don't see why not."

“I’ll run the bath,” Crowley said, easing him back down on the bed. Sat down, Aziraphale began to undress. That much, at least, he could still do. 

He folded his clothes and set them aside to be washed. They hadn't been changed in days, and they clung unpleasantly to his skin after several bouts of fever. That had passed, thankfully. The scent of lavender soaps tickled his nose, pulling him from the memory with a smile. He wriggled in excitement. Crowley returned with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Aziraphale was so taken with the sight that he forgot he was naked for a moment. He coughed, and tried not to avoid his gaze, folding his hands in his lap.

"I... I wish you could've seen me as I was," he mumbled, looking down at himself. He was underweight and sickly, nothing like the soft, touchable body he'd been so comfortable in, before all this had stripped it from him. 

Crowley bit his lip. "Er... I did."

Aziraphale snapped out of his grey mood. "Pardon?" he said, looking up. 

"I might've... accidentally... seen you bathing in the waterfall once," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, staring wilfully at the ceiling in shame. "I would've told you I was there, but, um. I was a snake at the time. Stuffed myself into a little cave and couldn't get back out again without scaring you. I swear it wasn't on purpose."

"Hm." He took a moment to digest that information. He could feel the guilt radiating off Crowley even now, smothering anything else Aziraphale might've gleaned from his expression. "Was it... nice?"

Crowley gave a start of surprise, staring at him like he'd grown two heads. "Uh. What, you? Your...?" he stammered, making a limp-wristed gesture at Aziraphale's nakedness while choking on a random collection of syllables. It took a few moments, and a silently amused gaze, before he found his voice again. "Y... Yeah. I mean, I feel terrible about it, but _you,_ you were... glowing."

He could've collapsed in relief when a flattered smile curled Aziraphale's lips. "Ah," he said, a blush returning some much-needed colour to his cheeks. 

Shaking himself, Crowley came over and hooked his arm around his shoulders. "Now come on, let's get you in the bath, before you bloody kill me with all your — your _blushing,"_ he said, starting to develop one of his own. 

He scooped him up over the bath, and gently lowered him into the water. Aziraphale hummed, gripping the edges of the tub as the hot water enveloped him. Everything had been judged to perfection. The temperature, the water level, the bubbles — though he suspected the latter were there to give him a little more privacy, since Crowley would be watching over him. He lay there for a moment, letting the tension unwind, comforted by the unobtrusive presence of his husband by his side again. He looked over at him, meeting that steady yellow gaze. 

"May I ask, dear, and I'm by no means ungrateful, but... why did you come back?" he asked.

He smirked. "Four little birdies told me you needed a hand," he said. Aziraphale frowned, not understanding. "Adam, Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale. They nicked Azrael and rode the whole 200 miles south to find me."

Aziraphale's eyes almost bugged out of his head. "They did _what?"_ he shrieked, sitting up abruptly.

"Hey, let 'em be. Those kids just saved your skin, angel," he said, gently pushing him back down into the water. "And the lives of everyone in the realm."

He hummed in reluctant agreement. "I suppose I ought to give them each a medal."

"There you go," he said, leaning on the edge of the tub. He sighed, glancing down at his wedding ring. “They were right, though. I never should have left.”

“Technically, you never should have stayed in the first place,” he shot back. He took his hand, running his thumb over the royal seal on Crowley’s finger. He hadn’t forgotten all the ways he’d wrongfully forced Crowley to stay but, this time, he’d make it right. “We’ve both made mistakes.”

Crowley cracked a wry smile. “But we’re doing okay now,” he said, leaning down to kiss the wedding ring on Aziraphale’s finger. “Who says two wrongs don’t make a right, eh?”

Anathema stood in the town square, on a plinth which had once held a statue of Aziraphale. Now, it was a very convenient viewing platform. As dawn broke, spilling fiery light across the realm, she took her measurements and noted each one down. "Air temperature increasing, humidity levels stabilising," she muttered as she worked, plucking brass instruments from her bag and checking each in turn. "Barometer predicting fair weather. Wind speed decreasing."

She didn't need Agnes' input to know that the Queen would not be taking any visitors yet — or rather, that Crowley wouldn't allow any. Any royal nurse knew that if the Queen was inaccessible, though, the next best thing to examine was the surrounding area. The realm only thrived if the Queen did, after all. She picked up a set of colour samples from her bag, holding them up to the steadily deepening hue of the horizon. With a hum of satisfaction, she dropped the grey colour card back into the bag, and noted down the shade of blue which was beginning to develop in the sky. After that, she sat on the plinth to elaborate her notes, knowing she'd need better visibility before the next round of observations. 

People began to emerge and mill around. They gave her a wide berth, having learnt the hard way not to harass her. As the sun rose to a more respectable height, she took out a long brass telescope and held it to her eye. She tracked along the branches of the tree, finding the one remaining flower, still exactly where it had last been. Good. She was about to put the telescope down when her hand slipped, and something on a neighbouring branch caught her eye. She took a sharp breath. 

Buds! Small white flower buds, scattered along the branches in clusters. Her smile turned to a grin. If the tree was budding, then Aziraphale already had his feet firmly on the road to recovery. It would take time, effort and no small amount of love — the latter being Crowley's department — but she finally had hope that they would get there in the end. She began to count the buds for her notes when a series of amazed cries went up around her.

"Look!"

"Woah! What is it?"

"I've never heard of something like this before..."

Anathema lowered her telescope to see what all the fuss was about. Her eyes widened. Streaks of colour arched high over the tree, suspended in the sky like a grand archway tucked behind the rooftops of the city. She had heard of this phenomenon before, but only in studies of the human world, never amongst the fae realms. She put a hand on her hip, shaking her head in disbelief and fascination. 

"Huh," she said to herself. “A rainbow..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone have any recommendations for free sites to share original fiction? I’m thinking of expanding into original stories soon, too, so if anybody’s interested, please do let me know!  
> Follow WorseOriginals on tumblr for updates (it’s currently a totally empty blog but I hope to post an intro soon, once I get some stuff figured out)
> 
> PS Apologies to anyone confused by the 2 random humans at the start of this chapter. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who came to this story via my Outsider POV series :)


	35. Kingdom Come

Day by day, more buds grew on the tree. A few of the eldest ones were beginning to open up into flowers. Without dark clouds hanging over them, literally and figuratively, the city felt lighter again. Blue skies had returned, bringing with them warm weather and songbirds. The forest was still damp and autumnal, but as Aziraphale regained his strength, their treasured eternal summer would be restored. Food was delivered to Aziraphale's door, but no one yet had seen their Queen. Crowley guarded him jealously. No one was allowed into the room, nor even to peek inside. Crowley took Aziraphale’s meals in, never opening the door wider than he needed to take in the tray, and left the empty dishes on the step to be collected later. 

Crowley watched over him every hour of the day. At first, he had to spoon-feed him his meals, but this soon became unnecessary as the strength returned to Aziraphale's arms. Visitors did try to call, but Crowley turned them all away. Aziraphale's self-esteem had suffered enough without having to bear the pitying stares of his courtiers — and the only way the likes of Gabriel was getting in was over Crowley’s dead body. It did Aziraphale better to lie in bed, ensconced in his husband's arms, showered in the affection he'd been starved of for so long. Love seemed to help him recover. The more kisses, hugs, laughs and thoughtful gestures Crowley gave, the better Aziraphale looked by the next morning. Already, he was gaining weight. A healthy rose tint gathered on his cheeks. He smiled again. 

One warm mid-morning, one which reminded Crowley of the calmer days before they were married when all their problems could be put off for tomorrow, he lay awake in bed. Aziraphale was still resting. Crowley shut his eyes, listening to his gentle snores, when there was a soft knock at the door. He sat up with a scowl. 

He got up, careful not to disturb Aziraphale, and went to the door. He opened it a sliver, peeking out the gap with one yellow eye. Michael stood on the step. "No," Crowley said, and shut the door in his face. 

"Wait — Crowley, please," he begged. Crowley was already turning away to get back in bed. "Gabriel made a deal with Prince Beelzebub."

He froze. He glanced back at the door, edging back over to lean against it and listen to the muffled voice on the other side. "I'm listening," he said guardedly, crossing his arms. 

He sighed in relief. "When... When it looked like Aziraphale would die, Beelzebub sent Gabriel a letter, offering to take the tree for themselves while Gabriel ruled as king on their behalf," he said. He let his word hang in the air for a moment. "It's chaos down there, Crowley. The court is fighting amongst itself. Nothing is being done to rebuild, and Beelzebub will not forget the deal that was made, even if Aziraphale is alive."

"What, you think... you think they'll try taking it by force?" he said incredulously. 

"It's possible, with the court in disarray. We can't organise a war effort like this. It's only a matter of time before they come and see for themselves just how vulnerable we are," he said. He let out a long, troubled sigh. "Gabriel brought this upon us. He’s lost control of the court... We need a leader to rally us, or we don't stand a chance."

Crowley gritted his teeth. "Aziraphale is still too weak. Not happening."

"I know, Crowley. I'm not asking for him," he said, resting his forehead on the other side of the door, half in despair and half in glorious surrender. "I'm asking for a king."

He stared at the door, as if Michael could see his wide-eyed shock. He swallowed thickly, and stepped back. "I think you'd better go back downstairs, mate," he said, his stomach churning. He hung his head slightly, dropping his voice to a soft murmur. "There's no king up here."

Michael sighed. "I was worried you'd say that."

There was a shuffle as he pivoted on his heel, and his footfalls faded into silence down the stairwell. Crowley flexed his hands uncomfortably. He couldn't be a leader; he'd spent most of his life alone, far from any civilisation at all. How could he be expected to take charge of one? Much less one so dear to Aziraphale's heart? He'd looked within himself many times, pondering the crown and his future here, and never once had he found proof that he was worthy of it. He shook his head, and turned around. He jumped. 

"Aziraphale," he said, startled to see him sitting up against the headboard. "Uh. You're awake. How much of that did you...?"

"All of it," he said, twiddling his thumbs. He tilted his head, scrutinising him closely. "He has a point, you know. It's no small thing, for a duke to beg you to take the crown."

He grimaced. "Not my thing."

"It doesn't matter if it's your _thing_ , dear boy," he said scathingly. "We're on the brink of war."

"Beelzebub would be a bloody fool to declare war. They know I'm here, they know I'll fight," he said, crossing his arms, pacing around the bed. 

"I don't want you to fight," he said, his voice cracking. He swallowed back tears. "You could die, Crowley. You know what that would do to me. You've seen it."

"Angel," he said, climbing onto the bed to wrap his arms around him. He kissed his forehead, and gently caressed his cheek. "That won't happen. There won't be a war. I don't need to be a king to tell you that."

He rested his head on his chest, feeling the reassuring rhythm of his heart. "People have been fighting to be my king for millennia, you know," he said, idly tracing patterns over his shirt. "How did I manage to pick the one man who isn’t interested?"

"Maybe that's why you picked me," he said. "I'm not going to pretend I deserve it."

"Mark of a leader, if ever I saw one."

"Oi, don't you start," he said, burying his nose in his hair. "S'not like your people would want the Serpent on the throne anyway."

Aziraphale didn't respond to that. They stayed in thoughtful silence for a while, and Crowley took that to mean that he agreed. After a little more cuddling and reassurances, Aziraphale turned his eyes to the glass balcony doors, which had been shut ever since the cold weather set in. It was clearing up nicely now, though. "It's a lovely day outside," he said, admiring the blue sky and sunshine. "Would you be a dear and open the windows? Perhaps take a peek at the city while you're at it. Check up on them for me."

"Alright," Crowley said, with one last kiss on the temple before going to open the windows. He pinned them back, and stepped onto the balcony.

The city looked the same as ever. There were a few houses that were a little rough around the edges, storm-battered in recent weeks, but everything had held firm. The sun had dried up the last of the puddles, and every fallen petal had been cleared away. He leant on the balcony wall, watching the people mill around below, gathering the fallen leaves which had clustered like snow-drifts, and adding them to the compost heaps in the back of nearby carts. It seemed that the citizens were taking it upon themselves to tidy up, even if the court had been useless. He smiled. He liked the common folk far better than ordeal of politics... even if they had tried to kill him. A shout from below drew his eye.

He squinted. Were they...? Uh oh. They were pointing at him! He'd been spotted. He stood up straight, flinching back, as more and more eyes turned upward to the balcony. Someone shouted his name. Someone else whistled and whooped. One by one, more townsfolk gathered under the tree, racing out from their homes or down the street, crying out and waving frantically, trying to draw his attention. His jaw went slack. It took him a few seconds to process what was happening. They... They were cheering. They were cheering for _him._ Words failed him as he looked down on the rippling mass of people, alight with mirth and applause. His heart soared. He swallowed back his emotions, tentatively raising his hand, and waved. A fresh roar of jubilation rippled through them, and he couldn't suppress a laugh as hundreds of people enthusiastically waved back. 

When he felt himself start to blush, he decided to step back. He made an exaggerated gesture over his shoulder, toward the bedroom, and laughter spread through them. One especially loud fae shouted _go get 'im, tiger_ over the roar of the crowd — though he'd probably used magic to amplify his voice. Crowley rolled his eyes, and stepped back inside. 

Aziraphale sat in bed, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book in hand. Crowley narrowed his eyes the moment he saw the smug curl of his lips. "Ooh, you bastard," he said. He jabbed a finger toward the balcony. "You knew that would happen, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear," he said, innocently flipping a page. He looked across at him over his spectacles. "But incidentally, it does rather prove you've been forgiven."

"Smart-arse."

"Perhaps," he said, setting his book aside and beckoning him closer. "They love you. _I_ love you, Crowley, and in my humble opinion, that makes you royalty in all but name."

He bit his lip, sitting beside him. "So this is what you want me to do, is it?"

"If it's not too much trouble," he said airily. Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"C'mere, you," he said, pulling him in for a kiss.

Arguments raged in the throne room. Michael slipped back inside without being noticed among the shouting and pushing. Gabriel was at the heart of it, bellowing over the rest. He was still calling for them to make concessions to Beelzebub, to arrange some sort of special alliance. He was gaining no traction. The lesser nobles raged against him; nobody trusted him anymore. Michael stood at the edges, defeated. No one could win these debates. They were falling apart, old friends at one another's throats and eons of routine crumbling, without anyone to direct them. The doors rattled. He turned his head, expecting some stragglers to come sloping in, ready to join the fighting. 

They swung open, and one dark figure stood in the archway. His hair tumbled down his shoulders like a red lion's mane, and his slitted eyes dragged contemptuously across the disorder. One noble turned, giving a strangled cry at the sight of the Dullahan. "Master Crowley!"

The exclamation cut across the noise, silencing them. Crowley stepped forward, his footsteps echoing on the hard floor. "I see you're all hard at work, as usual," he said sardonically. They hung their heads, avoiding his gaze as he pushed through them. "Just popped in to let you know that Aziraphale's doing well. There'll be no need for Beelzebub's... _help._ "

"And — And he'll be back soon?" someone asked hopefully. Crowley kept walking, mounting the stairs to the throne. He turned his head.

"Nope," he said, popping the P. 

They groaned and muttered their unrest. Gabriel pushed his way to the front, scowling. "Listen, sunshine, you may be the consort, but you don't have any power over us," he said. "You have no right to interfere in our debate."

"Can't I?" he said, idly staring around the room. He took slow, purposely steps past the throne, arriving at the pedestal beside it with his back to the court. The king's crown sat in the glass-topped box, its golden surface reflecting his face in every branch and petal. "Cause the way I see it... Royalty pulls the strings around here."

Michael began to grin as the courtiers looked at one another, eyebrows high on their foreheads. Whispers bubbled up among them. They could sense the changing tide already. Gabriel spluttered, going very red in the face. "The Queen reigns. Not you," he barked, looking around for support. He saw none. His supporters drew back from him; even Sandalphon and Uriel looked away. He glared at Crowley's back. "Not. You."

Crowley turned around. The king's crown rested in his hands. "Sorry, mate," he said, raising the circlet up; the room held its collective breath as it came to rest upon his head. "There's been a regime change."

He turned, running his fingers along the arm of the throne. Michael swallowed hard, a tingle of nerves running down his spine. The court watched intently. The throne had never accepted anyone but Aziraphale. If the curse attacked Crowley, all was lost. The Dullahan turned to face them, the throne fanning out at his back. He knew the risks. All eyes rested on him, waiting, expecting, with bated breath. Crowley steeled himself and, with a hammering heart, he sat on the throne. 

He gasped, immediately gripped with an electrifying bolt of adrenaline. He gripped the arms of the throne, his knuckles white. Gabriel stared, willing him to drop to the ground, foaming at the mouth as the curse tore his mind to pieces. A moment passed. Crowley stretched his spine, gritting his teeth against the magic at work along his every nerve, in his head, in his very bones. There wasn't a shadow left unsearched in Crowley's being. Every inch of him was being tested, weighed against six thousand years of wisdom and memory, judged against the gold standard of Aziraphale’s heart. The tree saw everything. It saw the Dullahan, the Serpent, the Consort... and it saw the King. 

The throne withdrew back into itself. Crowley relaxed against it, and a victorious grin stretched his lips as he felt the whole essence of the tree ripple in delight. Aziraphale must have felt it. He imagined his smile, how proud he’d be...

He looked down the steps, seeing the court below him: the four dukes stood at the head of the crowd. A smile danced in Michael's eye. "It accepted him," he said. Crowley nodded, hardly trusting his voice, and Michael lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his head. "My King."

With a nervous glance at the ceiling, Uriel dropped to her knees, too. Then Sandalphon. Then the others — every lady, lord and duke — followed suit, falling in deference to their king as surely as a set of dominoes. Soon, only Gabriel was left standing. His purple glare never wavered. "Your majesty," Gabriel said through gritted teeth, and grudgingly knelt before him. 

Crowley smirked, savouring the moment of victory. He’d won. He had Aziraphale’s heart, his hand, and his throne; Gabriel couldn’t argue with that. “Right. Get up, all of you,” Crowley said, remembering he was here for a reason, not just to lord his rank over Gabriel. “We have work to do.”

A few nobles shared surprised glances. “Won’t there be a public announcement? A celebration?” one asked.

He curled his lip. “What, in the middle of a crisis? I don’t think so,” he said, eager to sidestep the idea of giving a speech. Public speaking was about as far from his forte as you could get. “We need damage reports. Rationing. Reconstruction plans. Capiche?”

“Yes, sire,” was the response, said in slightly unnerving unison. Crowley sent several nobles to the city, to assess damages and form a plan. He gave them a hastily scrawled note of emergency measures (not his idea — Aziraphale hadn’t sent him downstairs without any guidance whatsoever, thankfully) to nail to the town hall while they were down there, conspicuously headed by the phrase _By Royal Decree of His Majesty King Crowley The First._ So what if he was dodging the public appearance bit? In his defence, the last time he’d been surrounded by crowds in the city centre, they’d tried to murder him. He still wasn’t entirely over it, even if they were.

Instead, he retreated to the study, where he was presented with the letter from Prince Beelzebub. He scrutinised it closely, with Gabriel and Michael on the other side of the desk. "And this was out-of-the-blue, was it?" he said, tossing it back onto the desk. “Unsolicited?”

"Yes," Gabriel said tightly, still staring at the crown on Crowley's head.

"I can fetch you the minutes from the meeting when it was presented," Michael said with a side-glance at his fellow duke. Gabriel twitched. He knew was he was trying to do, endearing himself to the new king by climbing over his former allies. No matter. What Gabriel had said at that meeting was inflammatory and embarrassing, yes, but not criminal. Neither King nor Queen could do much worse than scold him for it, under their laws.

"Yeah. You do that. Gabriel, you find Petronius, start asking him about food rations," he said, gathering some parchment, planning to write to Queen Mary to bolster their essential supplies. He frowned at the duke, who didn't budge from his seat when Michael got up and went for the door. "That was an order, Gabriel."

There was a moment of tension. Michael lingered by the door, glancing between the two fae. Something had to give. Gabriel's mouth stretched into a smile which attempted politesse and landed squarely on threatening. "Understood... _sire."_

He left. Crowley could hear his stomping footsteps fade into the halls, and he did as he was told before the day was out. Petronius reported back to Crowley with a plan to distribute food to those in greatest need, which he was happy to sign off on as his last act of the day. It was near sundown by then. He hardly knew where the time had gone, running back and forth trying to pull the Queendom back to its feet. One moment he was at his coronation, the next he was dragging his feet back down the halls. He glanced out the window briefly as he walked, seeing the open rolling landscape, and suddenly remembering Azrael’s foal. He hadn’t met them yet. He looked up, sighed, and decided Aziraphale could wait a few more minutes. 

He arrived at the stables while the staff were packing up for the day. Sable whinnied from the field, back on all four hooves again, and stuffing his face with hay. Crowley smiled. He wouldn’t have gotten here in time if not for him. He swung his leg over the fence, patting his shoulder and murmuring his thanks before spotting another pair of horses trotting over the rise. He jogged over to meet them, recognising that silhouette anywhere.

“Azrael, you’re looking well,” he said fondly, looking down at the foal by her side. “And who’s this, eh?” 

He crouched in front of him, and Azrael spied her chance to bend down and nuzzle his hair. Motherhood had brought out her softer side, it appeared. Genesis snorted, taking a step forward, poking Crowley’s arm inquisitively. He sensed the bond between them, though he didn’t understand it.

“You’re a pretty pony, aren’t you?” he said sweetly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody overhead his baby voice. Bad look for a death-omen. Genesis jumped and whinnied in agreement, his hooves making a cute pit-pat noise as he stomped them. Crowley all but melted, gently stroking his stormy coat. “Can’t believe I’m a grandad already.” 

He patted Genesis on his head, scratching behind his ears. His horn was gold rather than Mercury’s silver, and it seemed to be coming through well. He really was a fine young horse. Crowley stayed until his mind drifted back to Aziraphale again, probably sat up in bed waiting for him, and finally stood up. He gave Azrael a pat on the shoulder as he went. “Good job, girl. Proud of you.” 

Aziraphale beamed when he shut the bedroom door behind him. "Oh, Crowley," he cooed, setting aside his book. "I knew it would suit you."

He frowned, before his hand flew up to his head and felt the warm metal there. "Shit. Forgot to take it off," he said, pulling the crown off his head. He spotted the smug look Aziraphale was giving him, and stuck his tongue out. "Shut it. It's comfortable, alright?"

"Pop it in the drawer, next to mine," he said. As Crowley put the crown away, he twiddled his thumbs. "So... how did it go?"

"Eh, s'alright. Gabriel was being a prat, but everyone else was alright," he said with a shrug. He stood up, turned, and dropped himself bonelessly onto the bed with a long groan. "Oh, that feels good. Back where I belong."

"With me?" 

"In a bed," he replied, muffled by the pillow on his face. He felt Aziraphale fingers tug at his hair as he dragged them through, gently untangling the knots and massaging his scalp. The Queen smiled as his husband visibly relaxed even further; he suspected he might have even fallen asleep. 

"You are a soft thing, Crowley," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to his head. 

Evidently, he had not fallen asleep, as he slowly lifted his head from the pillow with a melodramatic grimace. _"Soft?"_ he said, pushing himself up by his forearms. He pounced, rolling Aziraphale onto his back and pinning him there beneath him. "Soft is a four-letter-word. I'm the Dullahan, I'm not soft."

Aziraphale stared, his pupils blown wide. "Oh, I’m happy to hear it," he purred, wriggling his hips. 

Crowley drew a blank. That was not the response he'd expected. "A — Angel?" he said, suddenly very aware of his own weight holding him down. 

He winced. "Too crude?"

"N — No. Just..." he said, swiping his tongue over his lips. His eyes began to stray, down to the unbuttoned collar on his shirt. 

"Ah," Aziraphale said softly, a giddy realisation washing over him like a warm rising sun. “Is it working?”

He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he confessed quietly. His lips curled into a smile. “I bet you planned all this out, didn’t you? You’d never want anything less than a king, you snob. Should’ve known.”

“I’ve given it a little thought,” he said coyly, chuckling along with him. He reached up, brushing his fingers across Crowley’s cheek. “I missed you so much, my dear, while you were away. I... um...”

“What?” he said, tilting his head. A definite blush rose onto Aziraphale’s cheeks, along with a sheepish smile. 

“I even dreamt of you. Of this — and more,” he said. An insufferably smug grin began to creep onto Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself, you haven’t done anything yet.”

Crowley bit his lip. “Ah, you know me. More than happy to make your dreams a reality,” he said. He leant down, slowly, like a man hypnotised, to kiss his lips, his jaw, his neck... "I want you, angel."

Aziraphale shivered as he murmured those words against his pulse. He grasped a fistful of his hair, spreading his legs, bringing them up to wrap around his hips. "Crowley," he moaned, drawing a groan from him. He rutted down, pressing him harder into the mattress as his hands wandered, sliding beneath his shirt. Aziraphale shivered, arching his back, desperate to get closer. "Yes..."

Crowley mumbled something against his skin, bringing his hands down to hook his fingers over the waistband of his pants. He began to pull them down, bracing himself against the mattress with one hand so he could keep his lips against his neck. Aziraphale wriggled, grasping his hair tightly in anticipation. “Oh, do hurry up, dear,” he said breathily in his ear. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, the sound reverberating through his chest. 

“Temper, temper,” he said teasingly, and pulled back. Aziraphale was about to complain before he saw the open, tender look on Crowley’s face. His slitted pupils had widened to ovals, but they were just as beautiful as Aziraphale remembered on that first day he'd seen them, like yellow diamonds in the sun. His expression turned serious for a moment. "You're sure about this?" he asked. 

Aziraphale smiled, his eyes hooded. ”Absolutely certain,” he said, burning with love (and a few other things). “I’m all yours, my dear.”

When the court began to actually do something in the city, the people knew something had changed. No one actually looked at the notice on the hall until mid-day, since nothing of any use had been posted there for weeks. When someone finally took notice, the news was being crowed from the rooftops. The Dullahan was King! 

Needless to say, Newt was shocked. He'd been trying to be helpful in the Young house, despite Deidre's insistence that he was a guest, but the announcement knocked the wind out of him completely. Once he heard Crowley, his neighbour-come-father-figure-who-won't-admit-it had just become royalty, well... he needed a sit down. Arthur suggested he sit in the garden. Some fresh air might help, and it seemed to, at first. It didn’t take long for him to really think about what this meant for him, though.

"Something the matter, Newt?" Deidre asked, setting down her gardening tools to sit with him at the table. The sun had dipped below the horizon, bringing a calm, drowsy dimness to the city. 

He smiled weakly. "I'm fine," he said. 

"I'm a mother, dear. I can tell you're lying," she said with a teasing smile. "Go on. Even Crowley confided in me a few times, you know."

He sighed, shooting a glance at the tree towering over them, and the half-lit white flower-buds clustering the branches. "Just... thinking about how quiet it'll be at home, now he's staying here," he said with a shrug. "Should've known, s'pose. He really loves him, and... and I know he never really wanted to leave in the first place."

Deidre tilted her head. "Is there really no-one else around, where you live?"

He shook his head. "None. It's a hidden realm. Impossible to find, unless you have a guide," he said, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I'm only there because that's where I was made. Crowley let me stay. I... I've known him all my life."

"He's like your father," she surmised. He jolted, glancing around in paranoia.

"Don't — Don't say that, please," he said with another furtive glance toward the tree. It unsettled him deeply, staying so close to it, like falling asleep in the shadow of a vast and terrible monster’s lair. "I don't want _him_ to hear that."

"Crowley? Why?" she said, concerned. Newt looked petrified. Crowley hadn't done anything to hurt him, had he? She’d be having stern words with him if he had.

He shook his head vigorously. "Not him. Aziraphale," he whispered. "I've read the stories. If he thinks for a second that I’m actually Crowley’s son, he'll kill me. Queens don't tolerate their consorts having any young but their own."

Deidre wrinkled her nose. "What kind of books have you been reading?" she said incredulously. Newt blinked, taken aback. "I don't know much about other Queens, but if you were Crowley's son, Aziraphale would love you as his own. He wouldn't hurt you."

"He wouldn't?" he said.

"No. And, if you’re worried about being lonely when you go home..." she said, reaching across to take his hand comfortingly. "He’ll let you stay."

"Oh," he said, sitting back to digest that information. People here were much friendlier than he expected, but he guessed that shouldn't surprise him. Their King was Unseelie. Why shouldn’t he stay, in that case? It might be nice, even, to meet new people. He'd thought about getting out of the house more many times, but never had the guts for it. He looked up at the tree. The last light of the day made the white petals glow like fireflies; it was quite beautiful, once he stopped being so afraid of it. It might be good for him to have a Queen to look up to, even if he’d never seen the appeal of it until now. He sat back in his chair, admiring the tree.

A flurry of motion spread across the branches. Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred flowerbuds burst open, spreading their petals into proud white flowers all at once. "Woah," he gasped. "Is — Is that supposed to happen?"

Deidre gawked. "Um, well, it's not a bad thing, but it’s certainly new," she said hesitantly. "I wonder what caused it..."

Aziraphale gasped for breath, coming down from the aftershocks as Crowley collapsed onto the mattress beside him. For a moment, heavy breathing was the only noise remaining, until Aziraphale reached out and grasped Crowley’s hand tightly. “I love you,” he said, like the most urgent thing in the world. 

He grinned. “Love you too, angel,” he said, kissing his knuckles, and taking that as a sign that he’d enjoyed himself. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to tell you.”

“Oh, hush. Water under the bridge, as they say,” he said, snuggling down amongst the pillows. He was far too sated and pleasantly fatigued to bother running himself a bath. That was tomorrow’s issue, when he had his energy back. “We got there in the end.”

He chuckled, shuffling closer. “Bet you never thought you’d end up in bed with the headless horsemen, eh?” he said, giving him a teasing nudge. “Imagine if Agnes had tried telling you that. That would’ve put the wind up you.”

“Without context, certainly,” he said, grimacing. His image of the Dullahan before he’d met Crowley had been a hulking, monstrous brute, his half-rotten head swinging from one hand; not exactly what he’d consider attractive. “The legends are tantamount to slander, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em,” he said with a snort of laughter. “You know, all the Queens who heard about our marriage but haven’t met me probably _still_ think I’m some sort of giant zombie.”

“I shall have to make time to show you off to my distinguished peers in future, then,” he said sleepily, with a hint of sarcasm, tugging the blankets around his shoulders. Crowley laughed and settled beside him, murmuring goodnight with a kiss on the forehead and a smile still on his lips. 

Aziraphale had never felt more relaxed as sleep began to tug at his mind. It was almost as if Crowley’s touch still lingered on his skin, gentle and reverent. Crowley was right, in a way, about how shocked he would have been to learn who he would one day marry. Not only the Dullahan, but a snake-shapeshifter, too! Now that was a turn-up for the books. Never in all his wildest, most outlandish dreams did he imagine that he’d be deflowered by the Ser — 

His eyes snapped open. “Oh, that _bitch.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Azira-phale  
> Sittin’ - in - a - tree  
> F — U — C — K — I — N — G


	36. Swatting Flies

Under Crowley's rule, the realm began to pick itself up. Between organising relief efforts and spending time with Aziraphale in the evenings, he found he was quite good at this whole king lark. Michael had become a close confidant. Despite the bad blood between them, he'd been the first to teach him the ropes of government. He wasn’t the only one who’d mellowed since the coronation. Even Uriel and Sandalphon seemed more subdued, inclining their head to Crowley as he passed and meekly taking orders without protest. Gabriel was on a campaign of malicious compliance, following every command with irritating pedantry. So long as he wasn't actively causing trouble, he left him to it. 

Aziraphale was now well enough to take visitors. He had almost recovered his full body-weight and felt like himself again, if not for the fact that he wasn't acting as Queen. He'd begun to think of it as a holiday. Crowley would come to see him during mealtimes, without fail. He was usually alone, but on this occasion, he poked his head into the room at midday with a highly suspicious grin.

"Guess who," he said.

Aziraphale frowned. "Please tell me you didn't smuggle Genesis inside."

"As if Azrael would let me," he scoffed, and opened the door. Four children dashed inside, and launched themselves onto Aziraphale's bed. 

"Oh good lord — hello there!" he cried as they converged on him, piling up into a suffocating group hug. Dog bounced on the mattress, yapping, wagging his tail furiously. 

"We missed you," Wensleydale mumbled into his shirt. 

"The feeling was mutual, my dears," he said, hugging them close. Crowley leant on the doorframe, smiling; he couldn’t help but imagine that those children were their own, running to wake up their father on a lazy morning. "My, have you grown? In such a short time?"

Pepper huffed, rolling her eyes. "Brian had a growth spurt," she said. The way he grinned at her suggested that he wasn't about to let her forget it, either; he was now the tallest in the group. 

"Just you wait. I'll catch up," Adam said. As he sat up, Dog wriggled past him and hopped onto Aziraphale's chest. 

He narrowed his eyes. Dog stared back, leaning forward slowly, his wet nose twitching. "Don't... you... dare..." he said firmly. Royal authority meant very little to an affectionate fae-hound; he lunged forward, licking his face all over until Adam pulled him off with a laugh. Crowley was almost doubled over with cackling. 

"Sorry, Aziraphale," said Adam with an unapologetic smile. "He missed you."

The Queen grimaced, trying to wipe the slobber from his face. "How cute," he said wryly. 

Crowley was just about to close the door when footsteps thundered up the staircase. He paused. He could feel Aziraphale's curious gaze on his back, especially when a breathless guard stumbled into view. "Sire! The — The wall!" he cried. "Beelzebub's forces are approaching the wall."

Aziraphale let out a strangled shriek before Crowley could speak. "What?" he said, gathering the children into a tighter huddle around him. "Crowley, you told me there wouldn't be a war!"

He spun, holding out a placating hand. "There won't be," he said, and turned to the guard. "Fetch my horse, Carmine — and ready the archers."

"Aye, sire!" he said, and sprinted back down out of view. 

Aziraphale glared as Crowley dropped to his knees to rifle through the vanity. "That sounds like you're preparing for battle, _dear."_

"Yeah, well, Beelzebub's already here and they're ready. We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs hoping they'll get tired and go home," he said, taking out his crown and setting it on his head. He kicked the drawer shut, and grabbed his darkest, most flowing cloak from the hook. "We figured this would happen when they didn't show up right away. We've had time. There's a plan."

"A good plan?" Pepper asked, frowning. She'd heard nothing of any plan, but then again, she often forgot that she was 12 and would probably not be consulted on such things. 

Crowley grimaced. "A plan," he said. Aziraphale's petrified stare burnt his skin. "They won't breach the wall, angel. I promise you that."

"How? How can you say that?" he said, his voice shrill with worry. Dog whined, attempting to comfort him with another lick on the cheek.

"Never underestimate the power of a good bluff, angel. All you need is a bit of imagination," he said with a grin, trying to instil him with confidence. He sighed, giving a small nod, and Crowley swept out of the room. The door closed softly behind him, and Aziraphale vividly remembered that day when his true nature had been revealed, leaving him alone and heartbroken for weeks... He prayed history wasn't about to repeat itself. 

Beelzebub rode at the head of the battalion, with Hastur to their left. Their expression curdled when a plume of white blossoms came into view over the city walls, far more of them than they'd hoped... The soldiers glanced at one another. They'd believed the Blossom Queendom was on its knees, beyond even the Dullahan's power to save. With the Queen so close to death, how could it not be? The city wall reared up ahead of them. Archers bristled the top, bows drawn. Beelzebub raised their hand, halting the march. Green leaves rustled in the trees behind them. The remains of that fleeting Autumn lay rotting, nourishing the roots of the returning summer. The portcullis rattled, dragging itself up, as a dark figure barrelled towards it. Beelzebub sat tall in their saddle. 

"Steady, men," Hastur called, feeling their unrest. The city had the high ground. The ranks held, but armour rattled as they fidgeted, anxious to flee. The Seelie were obviously not as weak as their commanders had claimed. 

A black mare galloped beneath the gate, which slammed back to earth the instant she was clear. Her hooves scattered the earth as she came to a halt, rearing up with a shrill whinny as her ruby eyes blazed in the sunlight. Her rider was cloaked. "Prince Beelzebub," he called down the slope as his horse dropped back to earth, pawing at the ground with vicious force. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"A deal waszz made," they said, sitting taller. "Thiszz realm is _mine."_

"Says who?" he shouted. 

"The Duke Gabriel. Higheszzt authority after the Queen," they said. A murmur went up among the ranks, halfheartedly rattling their weapons in agreement, but simultaneously terrified that Crowley would notice. 

Crowley clicked his tongue. "Afraid you're a bit behind the curve, mate," he said, reaching up to unclasp his cloak. It slid fluidly to the ground beside him. The Unseelie ranks gasped, shuffling minutely backwards at the sight of the golden crown on his head. "Authority's moved on."

"Hail King Crowley!" the archers on the wall cried in unison. Crowley gave them a thumbs up.

"Thanks lads," he said, then turned back to Beelzebub with a toothy grin. "The deal's off. I suggest you turn around now."

Hastur stared at Beelzebub, gritting their teeth, mute with anger. "You are only one rider," Hastur shouted up the slope, drawing his sword when Beelzebub only ground their teeth. "You can't defend a city alone."

Carmine snorted, tossing her head. Crowley put a steadying hand on her neck. "You've forgotten one thing," he said, raising his hand. "I'm the Dullahan, mate."

He snapped his fingers. The ground rumbled, quivering like plucked spider-silk on a giant web. Carmine was the only horse that stood firm, undaunted. The ranks fell into disarray, toppling into one other with shouts of alarm. Hastur wrestled with his mount, screeching threats at the troops. Light sparked behind Crowley. In a rush of heat and bellowing fire, the city walls caught alight, the flames thundering up the earth and stone with the terrifying speed of a wildfire. The Seelie archers screamed, falling back against the stone, away from the parapets. They lay there, shaking, for a long moment... until they realised, one by one, that those touched by the fire hadn’t been hurt. Despite the sweltering heat and noise, it was harmless. An illusion — a trick! 

The rear of the Unseelie forces broke ranks, scrambling backward toward the forest in retreat. The front lines lingered, but Crowley was undeterred. His forked tongue lashed the air. He could _taste_ their fear. Beelzebub glared, tugging hard on their horse's reins to settle it.

Crowley grinned nastily down at them. "So you're probably thinking — if he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" he shouted over the bellowing flames. He drew his whip from his belt, giving it a small flick to unfurl it. Flames began to kindle on the bone. "And very, very soon... you're all going to get the chance to find out."

He lifted his arm in a wide arch. The whip curled over his head in a graceful loop, trailing fire — the real deal — whistling cheerily as it went. Crowley flicked his wrist. The tip cracked the ground at the feet of Beelzebub's horse, spooking it. It reared and bucked, throwing the prince to the ground. They fell with a hard thump, and the crack of a broken rib. 

"Run for your lives!" screamed their lieutenant, dropping his weapon and barrelling through the soldiers to make his escape. Crowley's triumphant cackle filled the air as the rest of the troops scattered, deserting their commanders and abandoning their arms. With a shriek of despair, Hastur leaned down and hauled the prince haphazardly over his horse's back. They cursed him, clinging to the saddle with their legs paddling uselessly in the air. They couldn't even twist to shoot a final loathsome glare at the Unseelie King; Hastur spurred his horse on in pursuit of their scattered forces, toward their own escape. It was over. No solider would dare return to challenge the Dullahan. Crowley had faced them alone, and emerged as the victor.

Crowley rode through the streets toward the palace, met with cheering crowds. They called his name and sang his praises, punctuated with whoops and whistles every time he waved or tipped his head to the assembled throng. They tossed flowers into the air, which landed on the cobbles under Carmine's hooves. She held her head high, lapping up the attention. Quite without Crowley's input, she even stopped to do victory laps around the town square. He was helpless to do anything but grit his teeth and smile, silently cursing this stubborn mare. The people loved it. By the time he reached the palace steps, it seemed the whole city had turned out to scream their gratitude down his ear. 

He slipped out of Carmine's saddle, handing her over to a waiting stable hand, who said a hearty congratulations as he led her away. Crowley dusted off his hands, and turned to give a final wave to the crowds. Behind him, the palace doors rattled, and creaked open. The crowd fell suddenly quiet. Crowley froze. That was either very good, or very bad... Hesitantly, he turned around, tilting his head up to see who had emerged. 

"Angel!" he cried, his jaw dropping. Aziraphale beamed, standing on the top step. His familiar white coat and bow-tie found their rightful place over his waistcoat, highlighting the healthy pink of his cheeks and the twinkle in his eye. No one had seen him in public for weeks. 

"I assume we won," he said with a smile. 

A grin twitched the edges of his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, we won," he said. A roar of applause and cheers erupted from the city. With a bark of laughter, Crowley sprinted up the stairs, and dragged his husband into a tight hug. "Welcome back, your majesty," he whispered in his ear. 

Aziraphale hugged back. "And what a wonderful day to return," he said, pulling back, bathing in the joy of his people, in the sun, and the unwavering love in Crowley's eyes. He leaned up, rising on his tip-toes to pull him into a kiss. The crowd whooped and wolf-whistled, dusting a blush over the Queen's cheeks. Crowley smiled into the kiss, taking him by the waist and dipping him low in his arms, to the delight of the celebrating crowds, who hollered and laughed and shared in their joy. Crowley pulled them back upright, though he didn’t miss the mischievous sparkle glinting in Aziraphale’s eye when they pulled apart. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "I don't like that look. That's trouble."

With a smirk, Aziraphale took his hand, and it was a testament to just how much he'd recovered, that Crowley simply could not fight the strength which lifted his arm high into the air. "Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" the crowd echoed, chanting it over and over like a victory cry — and in many ways, it was. The tips of Crowley's ears turned bright red, and he shot a petulant glance at his husband, who beamed back. He couldn't stay angry at that face. With a sigh, he squared his shoulders and allowed himself a smile as the city cheered for him. Over their heads, the last of the flower-buds flourished into blossoms, returning the tree to all its former glory.

A few days later, Newt shuffled up to the palace doors. It was Deidre's idea. If he wanted to stay, he should at least let Crowley know. He'd barely uttered the words _I'm a friend of the king_ before he was bundled inside and — to his horror — shunted directly into the middle of court session. 

All eyes turned to him. He shrunk in on himself, cringing under the attention, and his head-newt nestled deeper into his hair, hiding. He shuffled forward, hoping to find Crowley somewhere in the crowd, not that he had any such luck. The court regarded him with suspicion and curiosity, shifting to let him pass. He didn’t realise where his wandering feet had taken him until he almost tripped on an unexpected step, and looked up, expecting to see a staircase to some upper chamber where the higher nobility had sequestered themselves. Instead, he looked directly into the eyes of the Queen himself. 

Newt blanched. This was not the plan. He didn’t want an audience with the Queen! He quaked at the very idea, overawed by the sight of this ancient monarch. He was just as Crowley described: dignified and unconventionally handsome, platinum blond and pale, with curiosity in his sky-blue eyes. Newt could see how Crowley had fallen for him, but _his_ main concern was trying to figure out his manners. Was it rude to look directly at him? Should he avert his eyes? In his panic, all he managed to do was stare. 

"Erm. Hello there," said Aziraphale after a long, awkward silence. "...Can I help you?"

Newt wrung his hands together. "Um. Erm. Well. I'm. I'm," he said, growing more terrified by the moment that his poor manners would offend him. He gave a hesitant bow. "Newt. Friend of Crowley."

"Ah! Why didn't you say so?" he said, and Newt almost collapsed in relief when he smiled. "Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Though how is it you came to be here, if I may ask? I don’t recall Crowley mentioning that he was expecting company.”

Newt gulped. “He wasn’t. I’m his neighbour, and I arrived just after him with his other horses, and — and the children who told him about... about you,” he said, unsure how to reference such a recent trauma. Aziraphale only winced slightly. “Is he around?” 

“I’m afraid not. But if you have a request to make, I would be happy to pass it on to him — or handle it myself,” he said airily, as if it was completely normal for strange outsiders to stumble into his court. Newt stammered and mumbled a response. Aziraphale quirked a brow. “Speak up, child.”

“There’s nobody left at home now he’s gone,” he said, louder this time. He felt very small under his gaze, but not entirely in a bad way. He imagined this is what a new puppy would feel like, upon first being taken into their owner’s home. “I was hoping you might give me permission to, um... to stay here.” 

"Oh, my dear boy, why didn’t you just say so?” Aziraphale said, his expression softening as he looked pityingly down on him. Newt swallowed hard, stunned by his compassion. "Of course you can stay. I have more spare rooms in this palace than I know what to do with."

"Here?" he squeaked, looking around the grand hall as if someone might let him in on the joke. Aziraphale didn’t hear, already calling over an attendant to make arrangements for him. He must be kidding!

He was not kidding. By lunchtime, Newt had a fully furnished en-suite room with a plush bed, and the offer of a seat at the Queen's table for dinner. It never crossed Aziraphale’s mind that, when Newt asked to stay, he only meant in the Queendom generally, not right there in the royal palace. When Crowley eventually found him and heard the whole twisted tale, he found it all highly amusing. 

“Almost the same thing happened to me, you know,” he said, throwing himself down into a chair in the corner of Newt’s new room. “What did I tell you? One moment you’re just talking, the next, you live here. That’s how they get you.” 

“I see what you mean now,” he said with a grimace. “It’s easy to get caught up with him.”

“Just so long as you’re not trying to nick him off me, you’ll be fine,” Crowley joked, slouching back casually. Newt winced; he’d witnessed the nasty side of Crowley’s temper before, and he daren’t even imagine what he’d do if anyone tried to take his Queen away from him. "I mean, so long as you enjoy summer. Every day. It's literally all sunshine and rainbows, all the time. Well, the rainbows are new, but you get what I mean."

He shrugged, looking out the window. "It's quite friendly."

"True."

"I need to go home soon and move out properly," he said, looking out the window at the city below. "I left all my stuff."

"Shit, I forgot about that. Me too," he said, suddenly remembering all the furniture, clothes, plants and tools left at home. King though he was, technically, his only current possessions amounted to little more than a crown, a wedding ring, and the clothes off his back. "We could pop back this weekend. Take a few days to gather it up, load it onto the Cóiste Bodhar and bob's your uncle, we're back here before anyone starts to miss us."

"Miss you, you mean. There's no one here who'd even notice if I left."

"That's because you only just arrived, you prat," he said, giving him a good-natured shove as he made his way out the door. "Give it time."

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Crowley asked, his hood pulled low, holding Aziraphale's hand. The moon sat high over the pastures, and his horses grumbled and snorted in impatience. They'd decided to leave at night to avoid causing a fuss in the city. 

"Yes, yes, tip-top," he said. "It's only a few days, dear. I like to think I'm not _that_ dependent on you, you know."

He brushed a thumb over his knuckles. "Just... just don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, will you?"

He huffed. "Charming!" he said. "I ran this Queendom alone for six millennia before I had a king to share the load. I'm quite capable, thank you."

He laughed, pressing a kiss to his head. "Alright, point taken," he said. He glanced over to where Newt was trying and failing to climb onto Snowy's back. He sighed, shaking his head. "I'd better go give him a leg up."

"Yes, I think so," he said with an amused smile. After Crowley explained Newt’s fear of Queens, Aziraphale had made a special effort to get to know the boy, and it was already paying off. He’d begun to relax around him ever since Aziraphale invited him for mid-morning tea. "Have fun, dear. I'll see you soon."

"Right. Bye, angel," he said, giving him a peck on the lips before going to help Newt. 

Aziraphale stayed to wave them off, and stood with Mercury for a while after they faded away into the shadows. Genesis was in his father’s stable tonight, with his mother off again to her old home. This would be her last journey away, he hoped. Crowley's, too. As much as he kept a brave face about it, he knew the next few days would be a little more dull without his husband around. Still, he'd cope, he told himself. He just needed a good night's sleep. 

He took the road back to the palace at a leisurely pace, and got back in bed. It felt too large with only him in it. Crowley's scent still lingered on the sheets, tricking him into thinking he was still there whenever he grew drowsy, only to jolt awake again a moment later. He tossed and turned, trying to drift off to the sound of crickets and rustling flowers... No, not working. Wonderful. He huffed, admitting defeat, and dragged Crowley's pillow over to his side of the bed. _At least he'll never know I did such a silly thing,_ he thought, hugging it tightly. He was asleep within the hour. 

He forgot about the pillow trick until the next night, when he pulled it over only to discover that a servant had been in to change the sheets. It now smelled like laundry soap. He huffed, and threw it back down. So much for that, then. It took a little longer for him to settle that night, though a little reading helped soothe his thoughts. As he flicked through the pages, he wondered what Crowley and Newt were up to just then. Sleeping, he'd hope, at this time of night! Unless... Unless Crowley was up at night thinking of him, too. Did he struggle to sleep alone now as well? Or was that a quirk unique to Aziraphale? Shaking his head, he set aside his book and lay down. He shouldn't overthink things. It wasn't good for him. 

He jolted away again in the small hours of the morning. His stomach churned. He sat up with a groan, squinting through the murky bedroom. He'd been having a terrible dream, but already the memory faded, leaving him only with a sense of dread. "Crowley, dear, wake up,” he said, reaching out only for his hand to land on empty sheets. He deflated slightly, and his belly twisted even harder. "Ah. Silly me."

He slumped, rubbing his eyes. He felt awful. His stomach wouldn't settle, and he felt a little dizzy. He wondered if it was something he ate. He might've just been unlucky with the fish at dinner, he told himself — that this couldn’t possibly be the return of the terrible nausea during the days of Crowley’s exile. He got up, hurrying into the bathroom as he felt dinner begin to rise up his throat. He bent over the toilet, vomiting, and pointedly ignored the thought in the back of his head which wondered if he really _was_ that dependent on Crowley...

He didn't mention it to anyone that day. He spent the morning in the bath, picked at his breakfast without appetite, and set about his duties. He was determined to prove that he wouldn't break down after less than a week without his husband. His body was against him. He had a headache all morning, and snapped several times at whoever was unlucky enough to be in-range. The court was walking on eggshells around him. He began to feel a little better as the day wore on. He avoided fish that night at dinner, just on the off chance, and went to bed in better spirits. He was just enjoying his last cup of tea before bed when there was a knock at his door. 

He jumped up, wondering if Crowley had come back early. "Yes?" he said, answering the door. 

It was Michael. "Aziraphale," he said in a low voice. "Sorry to bother you, but perhaps you should see this..."

Bemused, he followed him down the stairs. They arrived in the gardens not long after, which were deserted at this time of day as light levels waned. A time-weathered fae stood on the path, with a strange bulky object hanging around his neck on a string. He stood to attention as he spotted them approaching. "Your majesty," he said, a touch dramatically, bowing low. A small fae-hound, even smaller and rattier than Dog, sat by his feet. "RP Tyler, at your service, my Lord."

"Um, yes, thank you," he said with a puzzled glance at Michael.

"Mr Tyler alerted a guard to an abnormality in your tree," he explained in a confidential tone. "They fetched me right away. It's gone no further."

Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat. He looked up, but saw nothing out of the ordinary among the branches. "Where? I don't see anything odd. I don't _feel_ anything odd," he said, adding that last sentence on a little too forcefully. 

Tyler cleared his throat, drawing his attention with a giddy smile. "If, uh, you'll excuse my contradiction, your majesty... There is something there, it's just too far away to see. Now," he said, lifting the object hanging from his neck. "These are binoculars. A little invention of my own, which lets me see great distances without the need for magic. Helps with the neighbourhood watch no end, I can tell you! I'd be quite happy to explain how they work, if — "

"What did you see?" he snapped impatiently. Michael blinked in surprise; he wasn't often so short with people, especially his own citizens. 

"Um, of course. Here," he said, handing them over and giving a brief explanation of how to operate them. He pointed upward. "In the middle of that large bough there."

Once Aziraphale figured out how to focus them, he looked through the binoculars, tracking the length of the branch he'd indicated to. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary leapt out immediately. He hummed sceptically, until he found what Tyler had spotted. He frowned. One of the flowers on the tree slumped downwards, with an odd growth swelling the stem from inside, just behind the bloom. "Some sort of... cyst?" he said, lowering the binoculars. 

"We should ask Anathema," Michael said. 

He handed the binoculars back to the old man. "Thank you for letting us know, Mr Tyler," he said. "I would be grateful if you would keep this to yourself for now."

"Of course. Just doing my civic duty, sire," he said proudly. "Let us hope that the King returns soon."

He wondered off, blind to the way Aziraphale scowled after him. Michael watched him go, his hands folded tightly behind his back. "Is that the reason, do you think?" he said. "Crowley leaving again?"

"He hasn't left," he said harshly, his voice cracking. Michael stared for a moment. Aziraphale cleared his throat, and composed himself. "He's coming back this time."

"Of course. I didn't mean it like that," he said, looking at his feet. "But if your health depends on him being close-by..."

"It does not," he said, a hint of hysteria creeping into his voice. "I'm perfectly fine."

He waited a moment. "Have you really been feeling okay recently?" he said. "You seem agitated."

He looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I... I was sick, early this morning," he admitted. 

"And you didn't tell anyone?" he exclaimed, eyes widening. Aziraphale cringed under his stare. "Honestly. We're taking you to Anathema, right now."

Aziraphale sat on a bed in the quiet, cavernous gloom of the infirmary. It was late. Michael had left him in Anathema’s care, and she was not best pleased. She’d been about to clock out for the day when the stubborn Queen was dropped in her care, complete with a list of symptoms, some of which were hauntingly familiar to the days when he teetered on the edge of death. She ran her tests in icy silence. His temperature seemed normal, as well as his blood pressure and pulse...

“See? Perfectly normal, nothing to fret over,” he said skittishly. “I told Michael I was fine.”

She narrowed her eyes and held out her hand. “Your arm. I’m running blood tests,” she said. “I’m not taking any risks if there’s a growth in your branches. The tree doesn’t lie.”

He sighed, and rolled up his sleeve. She took the blood she needed, and turned to her work-table. Aziraphale re-buttoned his sleeve as she worked; she added a yellowish solution to the blue droplets in the test-tube, and scrutinised its response. She hummed. Setting that aside, she tested a second sample. Aziraphale watched her dissatisfaction with mounting anxiety, wondering if there really was something wrong with him after all. How would he break the news to Crowley, if he’d fallen terribly ill while he was away? He’d be hysterical. Aziraphale jumped as the nurse slammed her hand onto the table.

“I’ve got it,” she exclaimed, mostly to herself, rifling through her bag. She pulled out a phial of pink crystals, too preoccupied to turn and face the Queen. “Are you sexually active, sire?”

He gave a start of surprise. “I beg your pardon!”

“Answer the question, it’s important,” she said, shaking the crystals onto her palm. 

“Well! I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he said, crossing his arms and looking away with a furious blush. “That’s a private matter between Queen and consort, I’ll have you know.”

She hummed, only half-listening. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “I — I haven’t caught anything — unsavoury, have I?” he said, cringing. He’d have thought Crowley would’ve mentioned, if he’d been carrying that sort of disease.

She dropped the crystals into the last test tube, and grinned as the blue blood sizzled and spat. “Good news. You don’t have any infections,” she said, setting it down and folding her hands neatly in front of her. Aziraphale sagged down in relief. “But you did catch _something_ from him, in a way.”

He tensed up again. “What?” 

She decided to stop teasing him. “You’re pregnant, sire,” she said with a small, patient smile. “It seems the tree is showing before you are.”

Aziraphale stared blankly. “Pardon. Come again?”

“You’re pregnant,” she repeated gently. “Congratulations, your majesty.”

“Yes, that’s... I thought that’s what you said,” he said faintly. He wet his lips, running those words over and over again in his head. He gently pressed his hand against his belly, running his fingertips across his waistcoat, knowing that a new life was curled up somewhere deep inside him, a life that he and Crowley had made together... He sniffled, a smile taking over his face like a ray of sunshine through the clouds. “I’m going to have a baby.”

She nodded, her mood considerably improved as she packed away her equipment. “I’ll come to see you tomorrow morning with some guidance for the first few weeks. You’ll need regular checkups even after the birth,” she said, pulling the bag strap over her shoulder. “I’ll be discreet until the King returns. He should be the first to know.”

He gasped. “Good lord! Crowley! Oh, blast it, of course he’d be away, now of all times,” he sighed. “Well. What a welcome-home present this will be...”


	37. The Winner Takes It All

The Cóiste Bodhar rattled through the streets, the large spoked wheels making a racket against the cobbles. To any other Queendom, seeing that famous funeral coach rolling down the main thoroughfare would have been the stuff of nightmares. To them, it was a cause for celebration. The King was home! People waved from their windows, and Crowley waved back from the front seat at the head of the coach, reins in hand. Newt was beside him. They'd been away for five days, and Crowley was glad to see the tree still flourishing upon his return. 

He pulled the coach to a halt at the foot of the steps, and hopped down to the street. "Watch the coach, will you? I'll send a few people down to help move the stuff," he said, nodding to the carriage. Their belongings were stuffed inside, littering the seats which had cradled so many people on their final journey. "I'll be right back."

"Really?" he said dryly. If Crowley was going in search of his husband, he didn't have high hopes of seeing him again for at least an hour or two. Frankly, he’d be lucky if he saw him at all for the rest of the day.

Crowley wasn't listening. He'd already made a break for the doors, disappearing inside and breathing deeply from the familiar air of the palace. His forked tongue flickered out. He picked up Aziraphale's trail immediately, hurrying through the halls, stopping to tell a servant to help Newt outside as an afterthought. He got back on track, hunting Aziraphale until he came to a stop just outside the study. He grinned, staying light on his feet. He held his ear to the door. 

It was quiet. Paper shuffled. There was another noise, and a sniffle... Crowley frowned, his smile fading. Aziraphale was... crying? He raised his hand, and rapped gently on the door. The noise stopped abruptly. "Oh, who is it?" Aziraphale called, his voice shaky. 

"It's me, angel," he said, leaning on the door. "I'm home."

"Crowley!" he cried. His chair scraped, footsteps pattered across the office, and he wrenched the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. 

"Ang — " he began, cut off as Aziraphale grabbed his shirt and pulled him inside. He couldn't suppress a short laugh. "Wow. Missed me, did you? Do we need to lock the door, hang your bow-tie on the handle...?"

He smacked him on the arm, rolling his eyes. "Behave," he said, pulling him over to the writing table. He sat back behind the desk and smiled, waiting for Crowley to settle down across from him. Relieved as he was to be back, Crowley couldn’t ignore the redness in his husband’s eyes. He had been upset, but about what? 

"Is everything alright, Aziraphale?" he said, tilting his head, trying not to seem interrogatory.

"Yes, of course, um... just... hormones, I think," he said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing his eye. His emotions seemed to spin out of his control far more readily now and, no matter how down he felt, it sent a giddy flutter through him when he remembered why. “I’m all the better for having you home again.”

Crowley nodded as if he understood. "Uh. Yeah, sure," he said. He wasn't really sure what hormones he was talking about, but Aziraphale knew his body better than he did. If he said so, he must be right. "How've you been? All good?"

"Yes, absolutely tickety-boo, in fact," he said, beaming. He swallowed hard, and he knew Crowley noticed the nervous gesture. "I, erm. I actually have something I need to tell you."

He leaned back, apprehensive. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind. "Tell me good or tell me bad?" 

"Good. I hope," he said with a skittish smile. For the first time, he wondered if maybe Crowley wouldn’t react as well as he wanted him to. It was all very sudden. They hadn’t planned it, though they certainly hadn’t made any attempt to prevent it either. He took a deep breath, consoling himself: _You can do this, old boy. Just break the news gently._ "We've, um... We’ve made love quite a bit since the first time. I’m sure you recall."

"Yeah," he said slowly. He wondered if he was trying to ask him to slow down again. "We can stop, it's not a problem — "

"No!" he said, perhaps a little too quickly, startling Crowley into silence. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to compose himself again. "Sorry. Believe me, I have no compunctions about it, none at all. I just — I only bring it up because — erm. Oh dear. I didn't think I would be so nervous."

Aziraphale winced, looking down at his hands and fiddling anxiously. Crowley scowled at himself. Right, he’d had enough of this. Whatever was bothering him, it would need to get through Crowley before it drew so much as one more tear from him. He got up, skirting around the table and kneeling before his chair. He took his hands gently. "Angel, hey," he said, drawing his attention. His eyes were damp again. "Whatever it is, it's fine. I’ll handle it for you, whatever it is that’s bothering you."

That tempted a tearful smile out of him. He took a deep breath, tightening his grip on his hands. "I’m afraid this isn’t something you can bear for me, my dear, however much you try," he said with a hint of amusement. Crowley stayed quiet, but his stubborn expression said _try me._ Aziraphale rubbed a thumb over Crowley’s hand. "I'm pregnant."

Crowley’s jaw dropped. His determination slipped into shock, immobilising him completely for a moment. It was only when Aziraphale looked like he might burst into tears did he snap back to reality to break the silence. "Pr— ? Preg — ? Like..." he stammered, his eyes flicking down to his abdomen. Aziraphale nodded.

"We're having a baby," he said hoarsely, with a tentative smile, still unable to gauge his response. Crowley's heart jumped and skipped several beats. His mouth went dry, and he stared at Aziraphale's belly, searching for any sign of a bump. He began to reach out, but hesitated.

"Can... Can I touch?" he said, looking up at him with a wide-eyed, almost innocent, look. He looked almost mortal, for a moment. Aziraphale’s heart began to lift as he saw the sheer, reverent wonder in Crowley’s features.

The Queen chuckled quietly. "You did more than that to put it there, dear," he said, leaning back in his chair and unbuttoning his waistcoat. Crowley's palms were spread over his midriff immediately, running over the soft blue fabric of his shirt. "You can't feel it yet."

"Doesn't mean I can't try," he said, popping the shirt-buttons free over his belly. He leaned in, gently kneading his belly fat, pressing his lips against his bare skin. Aziraphale finally grinned; he knew he had no reason to worry in the first place. "I love you. _Both_ of you. You're incredible, look at you..."

"I take it that you're pleased, then?" he said, running his fingers through his hair, gently working through the tangles. Oh, how he'd missed this... Crowley groaned, his face buried into his belly.

"Very," he said, clinging to his middle. "I want to feel 'em kick."

"You'll have to wait a few months first, I'm afraid," he said, every ounce of tension sliding out of his muscles. He'd been aggravated and short-tempered for days, and perhaps this was what he'd been missing: his baby's father, to make it all finally seem real. No dream could recreate Crowley’s touch. 

Crowley couldn't get close enough. He could feel something waking up inside him, something that had been cowering in a burrow since his violent banishment... The Serpent was stirring, drawn by a fierce paternal instinct. Finally, it had what it had always wanted. He revelled in Aziraphale’s warmth, like it was the only thing which could temper his cold blood. The study door clicked. Aziraphale's muscles tensed up beneath his cheek; he shot to his feet, an acidic hiss spilling from his mouth as he emerged from under the desk. 

Gabriel froze in the door. Crowley's face was half-overtaken by smooth black scales, framing the boundless yellow of his eyes. Aziraphale was frantically re-buttoning his clothes. Overall, quite suspicious. "Am I interrupting something?" he said, an undercurrent of mockery in his voice, and made no move to leave. 

_"Yesss,"_ Crowley hissed, at the same time Aziraphale cried _no!_ They looked at one another. "You're kidding. I was enjoying mysssself."

He flushed red, and tugged his clothes straight. "Ahem. Yes, dear, but we still have jobs to do," he said, trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his dignity. "Gabriel. What can I do for you?" 

Gabriel thought nothing of the scene he'd walked in on. What did he care? Thinking of whatever they got up to with each other only made his blood boil — especially when Crowley looked like _that_. It reminded him of everything he’d stolen from him. First the Queen's favour, then the crown and, more recently, his allies. Sandalphon and Uriel had abandoned him, unwilling to challenge Crowley for power, even indirectly. He was King, and the charge for acting against him had just escalated to pure, cold treason. Especially after his brush with death, mercy from Aziraphale seemed unlikely if his husband came to harm. Gabriel loathed them. With their help, they could have spread dissent, and continued their campaign against the king in secret. It would have been so simple. Now, he was alone, struggling for the means to do much more than glare and carelessly trample over their intimate moments in the study. Quietly, almost without realising, his desire for the crown had curdled and soured into something far more dangerous. He didn’t care for it anymore. What he wanted instead was another matter, one he hadn’t entertained... not yet, at least. Power had been his drug of choice for so long that the terrible, shivering withdrawal had not yet passed, and his thoughts couldn’t help but linger around getting another fix, regardless of whether he truly enjoyed it anymore.

An announcement was due to be made to the city that afternoon. It was unusually spontaneous, and the royal couple insisted that as many people as possible attended. Guards were deployed all day to notify the people of the speech. The court were obliged to be there. Gabriel would've avoided it if he could, but here he was, stood in the second row of the crowd, as befitted his decaying rank. The King and Queen stood at the top of the palace steps, beaming. Crowley looked unusually proud of himself, even more so than when he'd returned from his triumphant victory over Beelzebub's forces. He kept a firm grip around Aziraphale's waist. He stood tall, the sun shimmering along the gold threads hidden among the black fabric of his shirt and setting his red hair aflame. It was hard to imagine anyone else but him as the Blossom King, these days. Aziraphale cleared his throat. 

"Good afternoon, everyone," the Queen said, his amplified voice silencing the chattering crowd. "I realise this is short notice, and I’m delighted to see so many of you turned out for the occasion. I suppose I should start by apologising for not saying this sooner, but I simply couldn't make this announcement without my dear Crowley here to see it."

The man in question rolled his eyes and muttered something in his ear, probably words to the effect of _get to the point, angel._

"Ah. Yes. Of course. Ahem, I am absolutely thrilled to announce, after many long millennia of waiting..." he said, with a tooth-rottingly sweet look at his husband. "Crowley and I are expecting a baby."

The city erupted. Jubilant screams drowned out every other sound, frightening every bird in the city up into the air. The crowd lurched and rippled as people jumped in the air and spun one another around, laughing and crying their joy in the breaths between those haphazard dances. The royal couple grinned until their cheeks ached, clinging to one another with giddy excitement as their people screeched out their congratulations and delight. Gabriel was a statue among the revellers. Slowly, he turned. He began to walk between them with a slow and even gait, coldly indifferent. The warmth of their happiness didn't touch him. Their applause didn't reach his ear. Their smiles couldn't lift him. He left the crowd without a whisper, vanishing among the warren of streets.

He found himself in his greenhouse. The roaring sea of people was a distant noise, muted by the glass. He cast an eye around at the plants, flowering green and purple, cluttering every corner with their roots and vines. It was where he'd once sat to plot Crowley's downfall. It was a place he'd once built to win the Queen's attention. It had earned him _nothing._

With a scream of anguish, he snatched the nearest plant and hurled it. It shattered a glass panel, scattering shards onto the road. He kicked another, spilling black earth over the tiles. He grabbed more, throwing them, ripping them to tattered shreds with his bare hands. The rending of leaves under his hands was never enough, never enough to quell the ferocious wrath in his chest. He was blind with it. He was lost in it. Everything was gone, ruined, damned. Crowley's spawn would rule, and Gabriel's name would be dashed from the history books. He dropped to his knees, aching and hoarse. The greenhouse was no longer itself. Blazing sunlight streamed in through the roof, which contained the only glass panels not splintered across the surrounding paths. Dirt and dead plants lay on the ground. Over the rooftops, the celebrations still went on, oblivious to his absence. It should have been him, on those steps beside the Queen. It should have been his child. It should have... it should have been... 

Days passed in a flurry, spiralling quickly into weeks. A bump began to round out Aziraphale's belly under his clothes, and Crowley was fascinated by it. He was sometimes tempted to delegate his duties to Uriel just so he could pay more attention to Aziraphale, but he knew full well he'd be nagged for it, so he didn't. There was much to be done, after the announcement was made. Aziraphale's appointments with Anathema ate into his schedule, and sometimes the strains of ruling overwhelmed him like they hadn't before. That was the hormones, apparently. Crowley shouldered the burden as much as he could, helped in large part by Michael. Another courtier who'd begun to gain the new King’s favour was Lesley, a diplomat-and-herald (affectionately nicknamed The Delivery Man), whose wife Maude was a master carpenter. Aziraphale had already commissioned her to build the crib. 

The 'cyst' on the tree, it turned out, was nothing of the sort. As the weeks dragged by, it continued to grow. It was Crowley who, staring up at it from the garden path, first realised what it was (though Anathema had known from the start, and neglected to mention). "It's an apple," he said.

"Hm?" Aziraphale said, looking up from examining the fruits of the pear tree. 

"The thing on the tree. It's an apple," he said, pointing at the green speck among the branches. "Makes sense, when you think about it. Trees fruit when their flowers are pollinated. S'almost the same thing as pregnancy."

"When what?" he said idly, biting into a ripe pear with a groan of satisfaction. He must've been craving one. "Oh, I like pears..."

Crowley rolled his eyes, and threw an arm over his shoulder as they continued down the garden path. "As I was saying..." he said. "Pollination is how plants reproduce. It's basically fertilising the flowers. How come you don't know this, anyway? You _are_ a tree, just... in a softer body."

He frowned at him. "I never had much cause to research," he said. "And while yes, I am a tree, I should count myself lucky you don't treat me like your other plants. I've seen the ones you brought from home. The poor things are petrified!"

He spluttered indignantly. "You're not the same as them. You're — You're — I don't love _them_ ," he said, looking away to hide the pink on his cheeks. "They're just a hobby."

"No, screaming is your hobby. The plants are a captive audience," he said, taking another bite from the pear. Crowley grumbled defeatedly, taking his arm to support his weight up the steps to the doors. 

They skipped past the study, sharing a knowing glance and speeding up slightly as if the room might suck them in if it noticed they were there. No one bothered them too much for taking more frequent days off. A little out of sympathy, a little because Aziraphale's tongue-lashings have gotten far more vicious now he was expecting. The court managed itself. Crowley would check in later, no doubt, and drop a few barbed comments for anyone who slacked off (despite the slight hypocrisy...) He and Aziraphale ignored all that for the time being, and retired to the drawing room. Crowley fetched a soft blanket and some extra cushions for his back before he could be convinced to sit down with him. 

"We need to think of names," Aziraphale said, settling into the familiar routine of talking while Crowley ran his hands over the ever-growing bump. "True names and common names."

"The true name needs to be something just... just weird," Crowley said. "Something no-one would ever guess. _Pear-Eating Princeling Horse The Second_ or something."

Aziraphale looked horrified. "Absolutely not!" he said, placing his hands protectively on the bump. "No child of mine will have such a ridiculous name."

Crowley held up his hands in surrender. "Alright. What's your bright idea, then?"

"Something... something more like... Apple, after the fruit on the tree," he said, feeling Crowley lean on his shoulder. "That's a start."

"Apple... Zira? From your common name," he said, taking his hand. "We could use Fell, too. No one knows your true name, so they couldn't guess it."

"What about... What about Fallen instead?" he suggested tentatively. He squeezed Crowley's hand. "That was how you came into the world, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," he rasped after a moment of silence. He wet his lips. "No one else knows that story besides you. It makes sense."

He traced patterns over the back of Crowley’s hand. "It’s only a suggestion, you know."

"I know. But I like it, it's... it's personal," he said, nodding. Silently, he took it as a reminder, to shield his own baby from the horrors that Crowley had faced so early in his life. He cleared his throat, hurrying to lighten the mood again with a lighthearted comment. "Apple Zira Fallen... Still a proper stupid name, that."

He tutted. "It's better than — what was it you suggested? Something about a horse?" he said. "It's not bad, as true names go, as far as I'm concerned."

"Hm, it's decent," he said, running his fingers across the waistband of his trousers, tugging the shirt free and slipping underneath, feeling the gentle curve of his bare skin accommodating their baby. He grinned into Aziraphale's neck as he shivered. "Still need a common name, though."

"A conversation for after the birth, perhaps," he said, arching his back, pressing closer to Crowley's touch. His lip twitched upward as he recognised that familiar subtle fluttering in his breath, and wriggle of his hips. Oh, this almost wasn’t fair. He was too lovely, too touchable, too deliciously coy... He grinned, biting his lip.

"D'you really mean that, or do you just have other things on your mind?" he said, grasping his thigh. 

Aziraphale gasped, his eyes snapping open. "How crude,” he scolded half-heartedly, but he didn’t slap his hand away.

"Am I wrong, though?" he said, arching a brow. As it happened, he wasn’t wrong, and — completely by coincidence — they didn’t get round to discussing common names that afternoon, either.

Aziraphale’s waistcoat soon felt tight around his middle, and he made a mental note to swap it for something bigger before the fabric stretched too much. Crowley tried talking him into ordering a few black shirts, just to irritate his long-standing nemesis the tailor, but he resisted. He didn’t tell Crowley that he was planning to order some black baby clothes, though; he’d leave that as a pleasant surprise.

The city buzzed with excitement. Many people kept charts, tracking the growth of the apple high up in the branches of the Blossom Tree. It was visible now, a little green speck among the white petals. Anathema said that it would ripen more and more, the closer the baby came to being born. It was exciting. Crowley hardly took his hands off Aziraphale’s belly when the bump really began to show, even in the middle of court sessions. He’d been told off several times for trying to slip his hand beneath his shirt to feel if it had gotten any bigger. That said, Aziraphale was more happy to oblige him once they were in their bedroom, alone, where he could worship that little swell in his abdomen all he liked. 

“You know, I never imagined you’d be quite this tactile,” he said, leaning against the headboard, shirtless. Crowley hugged his waist tighter.

“S’my other brain, I think,” he mumbled into his side, beginning to doze.

“Other brain? You have two?” he said curiously, brushing his long hair back to tuck it behind his ear. “I would never have guessed.”

“Ha-de-ha, angel,” he said. “I meant my snake mind.” 

“You mean... you’re not the same entity?” he said with a note of caution. Crowley winced. They hadn’t really addressed his serpent-form since he came back, and he knew Aziraphale still harboured the remnants of that old fear, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

“No, we are. Calling it a second brain isn’t quite right,” he said, lifting his head. “I just think differently, in that shape. The world’s simpler like that. More instincts, less thinking. Makes me do weird things sometimes.”

He hummed thoughtfully, wondering if he dared ask the question lingering in the back of his mind. “And... Snake-Crowley, does he, erm... does he like the baby?” 

“Loves it. He’s wanted to get you knocked up for ages,” he said, snuggling his face back into his side. Aziraphale made a pleased noise. “The snake wanted to move a lot faster than you were ready for.”

“Then I ought to thank you, for going at my pace even when, deep down, you didn’t really want to,” he said self-consciously, glancing away at the far wall. 

He scoffed. “Don’t thank me for that. That’s common decency, not anything special,” he said, readjusting his grip around Aziraphale’s middle. “My dumb animal brain isn’t that hard to ignore. Only when I’m shedding.”

Aziraphale nibbled on the inside of his cheek. He’d been wondering about this for a while, and since they were on the subject, now seemed like a good time to bring it up. “Could you... Could you show me?” he asked, wetting his lips nervously.

“What, shedding? No, not for ages now,” he said.

“I didn’t mean that. I meant... Could you show me your other form again? If you’re comfortable,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. Crowley glanced up in surprise.

“You want to see it? Seriously?” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Aziraphale nodded, his eyes flicking to his face for only an instant. “Why? I thought you hated it.” 

“I never said that!” he said, crossing his arms. His heart skipped a beat, ashamed that he’d made Crowley think he could truly hate any part of him. “I’ll just have to get used to it, that’s all, and I’d like to start sooner rather than later.” 

“You don’t have to. Could just ignore it, pretend like it’s not there...”

“I’ve had quite enough of burying my head in the sand, thank you,” he said, and finally dragged his eyes back over to meet his. Time seemed to tick slow for a moment. “If you don’t want to, I shan’t push it, but... I don’t want you to feel ashamed of it.” 

Crowley considered it. He nodded slowly; it could be good for both of them and, if he were honest with himself, he didn’t want to refuse Aziraphale anything, especially while he was carrying his baby. “Right then. Er... just stay there, then,” he said, and slid off the bed. He glanced around the room. It should be big enough for him, just about.

He rolled his shoulders, and they cracked with every motion. His skin prickled as scales emerged from beneath, spreading over the muscles that began to bulge out and fuse his limbs into a singular, undulating mass. Fangs replaced his teeth, and soon, the whole room was piled high with his coils. They folded up and doubled back on themselves countless times, forming mounds of shimmering scales several feet high just to fit himself in the room. The corner of the vanity table, bed and bureau all dug into his sides. Aziraphale sat on the bed, a little white island in an ocean of shimmering black snakeskin, his eyes wide. He’d forgotten how enormous he was. Once, this would have been a scene from his nightmares. He couldn’t help but curl up, a deeply ingrained fear forcing him to take a defensive position over his baby.

He shook his head, and forced himself to straighten out again. Snake-Crowley was just Crowley; there was no difference between them apart from impulse control, or so he gathered. He was the father of his child. He was the last person, snake or not, who would ever harm their baby. He peeked over the edge of the mattress, trying to track the winding mass of scales along every dip and curve to find his head. “Crowley?” he said, craning his neck in search of a flash of yellow.

While he peered over the edge, Crowley’s snout poked over the end of the bed. His tongue flickered out. There was no adrenaline in the air. A little worry, maybe, but that was to be expected. Tentatively, he leaned up a bit further, resting his enormous head on the foot of the bed. “Over here, angel,” he said.

“Oh! You can talk,” he said, looking over. “I wasn’t aware snakes had the facial muscles for such things...”

“They don’t. They’re alssso deaf, but lucky me, I’m not a normal sssnake,” he said, slithering further onto the mattress. It dipped under his weight; he paused, noticing the way Aziraphale was staring. It was a nightmarish sight, a colossal serpent advancing toward him in the dimly lit bedroom, as if it had stolen inside while he slept. “Ssscared?” 

He shook his head. “Fascinated,” he said, holding out his hand. After the tiniest hesitation, he rested his palm on Crowley’s snout, running it over the cold, smooth scales. Crowley wriggled forward a little more, until his head was level with Aziraphale’s belly, and he could feel his hands running across his body. He was so careful, so warm... Aziraphale soon went from cautious to curious, and began to massage his fingers across the soft snakeskin, feeling the solid muscle underneath. Crowley let out a small hiss.

“Hhnnh. That’ssss the ssspot,” he said, a shiver running along his long, long spine.

“Tense, dear?” he said amusedly, working over the knot he’d found. 

“If that’sss what’ll make you keep doing what you’re doing then yeah, I’m tense. Sssso tense,” he said, in utter bliss. They should’ve done this sooner. Aziraphale chuckled, and set both hands to work on his scales, loosening up the tension in his muscles. The poor thing was wound up tight as a spring! Crowley’s breathing evened out after a few minutes of massaging. Aziraphale tilted his head, waving his hand in front of his wide, vacant eyes. No response. He smiled, stroking his scales. He’d dozed off, and Aziraphale was more than happy to follow that example. He lay down, draping one arm over his enormous neck and snuggling into his side. It was a little colder than his other form, but just as comforting. He nodded off amongst a whole landscape of scales, without a care in the world; he’d never felt safer.

It took an embarrassingly long time before anyone noticed that Gabriel was missing. He’d hung around the palace less and less, week by week, after the announcement until he wasn't there at all. He did so little in the way of work that, after he stopped attending court altogether, nobody noticed his absence until a duke's signature was required and the other three were busy. Lesley took it upon himself to investigate. No need to worry the Queen if Gabriel was just off sick, after all. 

He rapped at the door of Gabriel's home, to no response. Hm. He'd have thought one of his servants would respond, at least... He opened the door, peeking inside. "Mister Gabriel, sir?" he called with a smile. He stepped into the entrance hall, a clean white space with hardly any furniture. "Hello? It's Lesley. Lesley Tancrede? Delivery Man? Heh... Maude's husband? Hello?"

He edged further in. Dead silence. Shaking off the uneasy feeling in his gut, he mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time. Gabriel was probably resting. He walked the hall, looking back and forth in the eerie quiet. Swallowing hard, he looked up, to the door at the end of the corridor. It sat ajar. No lights were on inside. 

He drew level with it, wetting his lips. He couldn't explain the dread prickling along his skin, only that it was cold and crept deeper with every step he took. He reached out, and pushed the door in with a long creak. "Gabriel...?"

His office was dark, the light shuttered out. The heady scent of paraffin clung to the air, rising up from the oil-lamps smashed across the floor. The glass crunched underfoot. The figure slumped at the desk lifted his head. "Who's there?" he croaked. "Tancrede? Is that you?"

"Yes, sir," he said, freezing up. He daren't go much closer to the desk. The silhouette slumped in the chair lacked the pride and poise of the Duke, stripped back to his ugly core. "People have been wondering about you, sir. You've been gone an awful long time."

Gabriel let out a long, strained wheeze that might've been a laugh. "And yet you're the first person I've seen in weeks," he said. He forced himself up straighter and, as his eyes adjusted, Lesley saw the manic gleam in his smile. "How is the Queen's precious baby doing?"

He hesitated. "Very well. He's six months along now," he said, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. Something was looking, something terrible... "He felt the first kick just yesterday. The King was chuffed to bits."

Gabriel's lip curled. "I bet he was," he hissed. "Slimy fucking _snake."_

"Sir!" Lesley cried in alarm. "You can't say that!"

"I'm the Archduke _fucking_ Gabriel," he bellowed, lurching to his feet. Lesley jumped, falling backwards out the door. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the glass, pelting it down the hall with a voice still screaming at his back: "I can say what the fuck I want!"

The summons came a day later. It was delivered on a slip of embossed card by an armed guard: _Duke Gabriel; The Queen requests your presence, 10 o'clock sharp, in his study. Not optional._ Lesley had reported back to him, it seemed. Gabriel refused to be seen like this in the palace, so unkempt and broken by his own rage. He washed, and found some clean clothes. They were old and slightly outmoded, but since he'd fired all his house staff, he had little else but this silver turtleneck and purple scarf. 

He arrived in the study at 9:59. He sat down, waiting. He'd left the palace when Aziraphale's pregnancy began to get obvious. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand that blatant reminder, and he especially resented the way Crowley clung to him with that lovesick smile. More than once, he'd rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder and grinned directly at Gabriel, running his hands over the first hints of his baby distending the Queen's belly. He was proud of what he'd done. He wanted to rub Gabriel's nose in it, that when Aziraphale was faced with a choice between his most powerful duke and the very monster destined to kill him, he'd chosen the snake. The study door swung open behind him. 

"Good morning, Gabriel," Aziraphale said, walking past him with one hand resting on the plump, round curve of his belly. He'd swapped his fitted waistcoat for a knitted vest, the pale tartan pattern stretching to accommodate his baby .

"Will the king be joining us?" he asked tightly, his eyes stuck to the baby bump as he lowered himself into his chair behind the desk. He glanced back, seeing only an armed guard by the door. 

"I thought it would be best if we talked alone," he said with a fleeting smile. He leaned heavily on his chair, his usual posture relaxed under the weight of his pregnancy. "I spoke to Lesley yesterday, and, erm... I understand you've not been coming to work recently."

He smiled tightly. "Working from home."

"Hm. Well... I will have to check that, you understand," he said skittishly. He gasped lightly, looking down; the baby had kicked again. A smile flickered across his face, rubbing the spot it had kicked. "Ssshhh, darling, I know."

Gabriel rolled his eyes, glancing around the room in disinterest. The nasty little creature was probably just wriggling for no reason. It was a snake, after all; a mindless half-breed. "Is there something else you wanted from me, sire?" 

He finally pulled his attention away from the kick, and cleared his throat. "Of course. Ahm... Lesley happened to mention that you were, um, a bit coarse," he said. Gabriel refused to rise to the accusation, forcing him to clarify. "Regarding my husband."

"I don't deny it."

"That's exactly the problem," he said, irritation finally shining through. "You're — You're so blatant, Gabriel. You can't just skip work and disrespect Crowley as you please! It puts everyone in a very awkward position. I expected better from you."

He twitched. "What?"

"You've disappointed me — and yourself. I haven't forgotten how quick you were to offer my throne to Prince Beelzebub," he said, crossing his arms. He sighed, deeply uncomfortable with this conversation but finally bold enough to say it. "I sincerely hoped you'd at least _try_ to redeem yourself. This can't continue, this — this jealousy you're harbouring."

"Jealous of who?" he asked through gritted teeth. He gripped the armrests until it hurt. 

"Don't patronise me," he said, shooting him a withering look. "I'm not an idiot, Gabriel.”

He took a slow, tense breath. “Of course not.”

“You were a loyal duke once, Gabriel... I'd be perfectly willing to forgive you, if you'd just accept the decision I made. It can't be undone," he said. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, a familiar habit over the last few months. “You have a choice to make.”

He swallowed, raising his chin. "What choice?" 

Aziraphale shot a nervous glance at the ceiling to avoid those unnerving purple eyes. "Accept that Crowley is your rightful King," he said quietly, cradling his pregnant belly for comfort, "or resign from your role as a duke."

Gabriel flexed his hands. The guard at the door gripped their spear with both hands, poised to intervene. To Aziraphale's surprise, as he tentatively looked back down at him, Gabriel was smiling. "I understand," he said, getting to his feet. His blood boiled as he inclined his head respectfully. "I will behave as you deserve from me in future, your majesty."

A little of the tension released from Aziraphale's shoulders. "Thank you, Gabriel," he said with palpable relief. "I knew you'd come through in the end. You can go now."

Michael and Crowley stood in the conference room, poring over a map. They had a meeting in less than an hour, and they were still pacing around indecisively. Crowley seemed distracted anyway. He was restless without Aziraphale at the best of times, even more so when he knew that he was meeting Gabriel today. He'd insisted he bring a bodyguard with him. He didn't trust that fae as far as he could throw him, especially not around his pregnant husband. If he made a single false move, Crowley wouldn’t hesitate to flay him to ribbons on the spot. Nothing would ever come between him and his family. As if hearing that thought, there was a knock as the doorframe. Both him and Michael narrowed their eyes.

"Gabriel. What do you want?" Crowley said, sharing a look with Michael .

He held up his hands. "To do my job," he said, stepping inside with a broad gesture to the conference table. Michael frowned. "The Queen and I came to an agreement."

"Did you now," Crowley said sceptically. 

"What? You're not going to undermine him, are you?" he said innocently. 

Crowley scowled, sneered, and turned away. Fine. He’d talk to Aziraphale afterwards, and ask him what the hell he was thinking. Gabriel should’ve been demoted a long time ago, but no, he insisted that they give him another chance. He was too forgiving for his own good. But then again, he didn’t — or perhaps refused — to see the evil that Crowley saw in Gabriel. He tried so hard to see the good that he forgot there was even another option. Crowley admired it in the way people admired all idealism: with a pitying sigh. Whatever came of it, Crowley would be there to stand between Gabriel and his family. He tried to ignore him, sidling over to the window to scan for any petals that might have fallen from the tree, on the off chance Gabriel had somehow managed to hurt the Queen. The Duke stalked along the table idly, his footfalls eerily quiet. 

Michael traced the line of a river on the map, mulling over Crowley’s proposal. It was a tricky one. He focused on it, only vaguely aware of Gabriel pacing around the room from the corner of his eye. Crowley stared thoughtfully out the open window, taking deep breaths of fresh air. Gabriel skirted around the table, glancing back at Michael. He was too focused in the map to bother with him. A tingle of anticipation ran down Gabriel’s spine. Crowley didn’t seem to notice him approaching. He was absorbed in the view of the gardens, his mind drifting from politics and anxieties, sailing into softer daydreams of carrying his newborn, strolling with his husband through the woodland trails where their romance had begun to blossom so long ago... Gabriel’s shadow loomed closer, blown into a grotesque phantom on the far wall. Metal glinted in the sun. Michael glanced up; his blood froze. 

_“LOOK OUT!”_

Crowley whirled around. A dagger lunged for his chest. He clamped his hand around Gabriel’s wrist, but not fast enough to stop the blade-tip puncturing his skin. He cried out. Two savage purple eyes burned, dominating his vision, flooding his veins with dread. Crowley’s his muscles quaked, fighting the force behind the knife. Blood trickled down his side. Gabriel gnashed his teeth. One slip, and he’d drive the blade between his ribs. Crowley gritted his teeth, hissing with strain. 

Magic roared in his ears. Light flooded the room, blinding electric blue; the pressure vanished. He collapsed against the wall, overwhelmed with adrenaline, his ears humming. The blade clattered by his feet. His breathing laboured. He blinked rapidly, the room returning to focus as the blast cleared. Gabriel lay on the floor like a broken doll. Michael lowered his hand, the blue light in his palm fading, his chest heaving with panic. 

He was by Crowley’s side, pulling him to his feet, even before the guards burst into the room. “Sire? We heard a commotion,” they said, skidding to a halt in shock. The scene was unthinkable. Crowley trembled, held up by one duke while another lay motionless on the floor. The Dullahan let Michael take his weight, trying to clear his head, until a hoarse, pained wheezing rose up from the floor. Gabriel was alive, weakly coughing up a red foam onto the conference room floor. The guards pointed their spears at him, eyeing the wounded duke with deep mistrust. 

“Typical,” Crowley grumbled. For a moment, he really thought he was rid of him, for good this time. He clutched his side with a wince of pain. “Arrest him. Now.”

The guard-captain’s jaw worked up and down in shock, even as his subordinates hauled the disgraced fae to his feet with a howl of pain. “The charge?”

Crowley and Michael shared a glance; it was a grave, knowing look. Gabriel had come to the end of the line. There would be no coming back from this. “He tried to kill me,” Crowley said, the blood still leaking from between his fingers. 

Aziraphale burst into the infirmary, already streaming with tears. “Crowley!” he screamed, spotting that familiar thin figure sat up on a bed. Newt hurried after him, split between worry for his friends and for the unborn heir. He and the Queen had been having some tea to wind down when the news came, and sent them both into a blind panic. He’d spent the run down here trying to tell Aziraphale to take deep breaths and slow down while he himself began to hyperventilate. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, reaching out for him while Anathema patched his side. Yet another shirt lay on a chair, ruined. Aziraphale collapsed beside him, cupping his face as if to prove that he was really there. “It’s okay, I’m fine. Just a flesh-wound.”

“Is — Is it true?” he hiccoughed, his face creased with abject terror. He clung to Crowley and, for once, Anathema didn’t chide him for getting in the way. 

Crowley sighed, and nodded. Aziraphale’s sob tore at his heart. He pulled him into a hug, cradling his head against his shoulder and sharing a glance with Newt, trying to reassure him as well. He could see the redness in his eyes; losing Crowley would be unthinkable to him. Anathema silently finished dressing his wound, and stepped back. She didn’t repeat her assessment of the wound in front of Aziraphale; if Crowley hadn’t caught the blade when he did, it would have gone straight through his heart. There wouldn’t have been much Anathema could’ve done to save him. Grief would have taken Aziraphale not long after Crowley’s death, and the baby’s chances of survival would have been slim. Gabriel had almost toppled the whole realm in one fell swing. She took Newt’s arm, guiding him away from the distraught couple with a few quiet words. They only needed one another right then. 

“H — How could I have let — let this happen?” Aziraphale babbled into Crowley’s bare chest. “I c — could have — I spoke to him this morning! I d — drove him to — to madness!”

Anger flared in Crowley’s chest. “Rubbish. This had nothing to do with you,” he said, holding him tighter, rubbing his back. “He made a choice. Free will, angel... it’s a bugger.”

He let out a short laugh and sat up, sniffling. “Oh, look at me. I ought to be the one comforting you,” he said, wiping his eyes. There was a beat of silence, filled with heavy breathing and the tang of fear. Gabriel had survived the scuffle, and currently languished in a cell below ground, under lock and key. They couldn’t afford to simply forget him. “What are we going to do, Crowley?”

“Well, first,” he said, and leant in to kiss him softly. He pulled back, and rested their foreheads together. “That.”

“Good start,” he said, beginning to breathe more evenly again. “And then?”

“Trial,” he said, then re-thought his words. “Though it won’t be much of one. He can’t exactly plead not-guilty.”

“I want the charge increased,” he said, surprising Crowley with a venomous tinge in his voice. “Attempted _triple_ regicide.”

Crowley swallowed hard, running his hands over the baby bump almost subconsciously. He was right. He’d almost killed all three of them, and he knew what he was doing. It was calculated revenge, pure and simple. He nodded. “Done,” he said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss against his swollen belly. He rested his cheek on it, knowing he’d sit up with the pattern of his jumper imprinted onto his face. There was a light thump against his face, almost like a heartbeat, but far more intentional. He smiled. “Baby agrees.”

“A little politician already,” Aziraphale said, running his hand through Crowley’s hair. “With my royal blood and your fiery spirit, they’ll be a force to be reckoned with, you know.”

“Good,” he said, and began talking to the bump. “You’ll do us proud, won’t you? You’ll be the most ferocious little bugger this side of the grave.”

“Ferocious but _sensible,”_ Aziraphale chipped in, hoping to mediate Crowley’s gung-ho advice. 

“Ssshhh, don’t listen to your father,” he stage-whispered. “You be as rebellious as you like.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Now! That’ll come back to bite you,” he said. “You’re their father too, you know.”

“Whatever. They’ll have to call us something different or we’ll never know who they’re talking to,” he said, not moving his head. He liked the idea that his baby could hear his voice, even now. He hoped they’d recognise it once they were born, and they’d know they were home.

“I’ve always liked Papa as an epithet,” Aziraphale replied, beginning to idly daydream about their child’s first words.

“That makes me Dad, then,” he said, smiling. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to hold his baby, to look into their eyes and watch them grow. He wanted to hear their voice, teach them all he knew, and show them the Queendom that, one day, they’d rule.

Someone cleared their throat behind them. Crowley lifted his head, and smiled tiredly. “Hey, the man of the hour,” he said. Michael hung his head, fidgeting in place. Crowley nudged Aziraphale. “He was there when Gabriel attacked. He saved my life.” 

The Queen beamed. “Then there is at least one duke in the palace I can still count on,” he said, grasping Crowley’s hand. Michael wished the ground would swallow him up where he stood. “You deserve a medal, I should think, for services to the realm.”

Michael stared at his feet. “I’m flattered, your majesty — ”

“Michael, come now, how long have we been friends?” he said warmly, cutting him off. “Please. It’s Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” he said hesitantly, taking a deep breath. His face was ashen. Crowley frowned, beginning to sense that it was more than just the shock affecting his mood. “I... I can’t accept any rewards. I’m afraid I don’t deserve them.”

“What?” Aziraphale said, tilting his head. “Why ever not?”

He swallowed hard. “I have a confession to make, to both of you,” he said. He barely dared to look them in the eye. “Gabriel isn’t the only duke who betrayed you.”


	38. Confession

Michael's words flowed like blood from a wound. He sat on the infirmary bed across from the King and Queen, and he made his full confession. "I should have told you right from the start. None of us have been honest with you," he said, bowing his head. He was deeply grateful that the infirmary hall was deserted. Anathema tactfully ushered everyone else out, sensing a political storm. "It... It started with the crown. Your crown, Crowley."

He narrowed his eyes. "Go on," he said. He already knew this part. Aziraphale looked between them both, agitated. 

"Gabriel plotted the theft, with our help. He was trying to frame you," he said. Aziraphale gasped, horror colouring his features. "But you already knew that, I think."

Aziraphale looked at his husband. "Crowley? What is he talking about?"

Crowley scowled down at his hands, and huffed. "The kids found the crown in Azrael's stable. They swapped the nameplates so they could tell you it was Mercury's instead," he explained in a low voice, fiddling with his wedding ring. "They were protecting me."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" he cried, alarmed, crossing his arms over his swollen belly.

"There are a lot things I didn't tell you," he said, his slitted eyes driving the point home more effectively than words. "Back then, I didn't know what you'd think. I couldn't just accuse him on no evidence, anyway, could I? You wouldn't believe me."

He slumped down a little. "I suppose not," he said quietly. He'd struggled to grasp the idea that Gabriel had tried to kill Crowley just that morning; back then, certainly, he thought Gabriel was an upstanding nobleman. Irritating, perhaps, but not criminal. 

Michael cleared his throat, and picked up the story again. "Sandalphon stole the crown and planted it. The rest you know. We all confirmed one another's alibi," he said, his burden of shame growing heavier every moment. "It failed, but... Gabriel used his failure to manufacture another plot. Uriel and Sandalphon made certain that Crowley overheard a rumour that you'd covered up the true culprit of the crown-theft."

"But, why...?" he said, grasping for Crowley's arm. The king sighed, holding his hand. 

"He knew Crowley would defend your honour. He challenged him, and the duel, well... you know how that went," he said. He looked up, hardly daring to look Crowley in the eye. "The stakes were higher than you knew. If Crowley lost... he'd have gone into exile."

"You _what?"_ Aziraphale shrieked, tightening his grip on his hand so suddenly that Crowley yelped. He released him quickly, but his anger didn’t fade. "You agreed to that? You stupid man, you — I could have lost you over something that bloody petty?"

"Angel, please," he said. "I did what I had to."

Crowley wrapped an arm around him, rubbing his pregnant belly and hugging him close to his side. Aziraphale fell quiet. He knew that. Crowley had been fighting Gabriel for longer than he'd known; he must be so tired... He looked back up to Michael, a friend who he'd known since the start of his life. He'd let this happen. He'd put Crowley through so much more heartache than he'd needed. "Go on," he said, and Michael saw the cold edge to his gaze. Aziraphale wouldn't forget this. 

"Uriel followed Crowley, after your wedding. Stalked him, and reported back," he said, hanging his head. "Gabriel never stopped searching for a way to get rid of him. I... I worked with him, but he froze me out after the duel. I suppose he thought he couldn't trust me, but I knew, I knew they were planning something big..."

"Did you tell anyone?" Crowley asked, resting his chin on the top of Aziraphale's head. 

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I... I discovered that Gabriel was the one who paid to have you attacked in the square. I heard all three of them discussing it in secret."

“I’ve been such a fool. I should have known it wasn’t some random attack,” Aziraphale said, his voice wavering as tears threatened to fall again. He felt so stupid. Crowley squeezed him a little tighter. “That Unseelie fellow, he's still in the dungeons, come to think of it. He’d rather slipped my mind. I... I think Gabriel wanted me to execute him."

"Good thing you didn't. He's our best evidence to take to trial," Crowley said, hoping to shore up his self-esteem again.

"Gabriel could be sentenced without trial. He can't deny what he did today," Michael said, nodding toward the wound dressing plastered over Crowley's chest. 

"No," Aziraphale said, tightening his hands into fists. Gabriel would be held to account for every damn thing he’d ever done, and the whole realm would know his crimes. "I have a far better idea."

Anathema grabbed her bag on her way out of the palace. If there was some sort of political fallout going on in the infirmary, she may as well make the most of the time out and stock up on supplies. She needed an assistant to help carry her bags to and from the apothecary in town and, without Adam around, she decided to kidnap the Queen’s newest palace resident for the afternoon. 

"So," she said, taking in the unfamiliar face as they walked, dragging him along with her. He had a timid-looking amphibian on his head, and big dark eyes that looked just as skittish. "Who're you?"

"Um. Newt," he said, with a nervous smile. 

"Creative," she said dryly, and kept walking at a relentless pace into the market square, releasing his arm.

"Crowley named me. I think it was only supposed to be a nickname, really. It just stuck," he said, hurrying after her in an attempt to salvage his image. "I didn't pick it!" 

She gave a semi-interested hum. "Something tells me Aziraphale will be in charge of naming their heir, then," she said, peering into the apothecary window. "So, are you helping me restock or not?"

He shuffled his feet and glanced over his shoulder. "I s'pose. I've got nothing on this afternoon."

Helping Anathema was not a five-minute job. Newt found his arms overburdened with phials, jars, bottles and bags as he trailed her around the various medicine dispensaries in town. Despite himself, he couldn’t help admire her, and not just for her looks. She knew precisely where to get the best of everything; she was wickedly intelligent, and a formidable negotiator. He was almost in awe of her indomitable attitude. Before long, her shoulders were laden with shopping bags, too. They left the final shop at the tail end of the afternoon, and ran into a tangle of people. Anathema craned her neck over the crowds. A man stood on the stone plinth in the centre of the plaza, a scroll in his hands and a sea of people at his feet.

"Who's that?" Newt asked. In his mind, Anathema seemed to know just about everything.

"Diplomat. Part-time royal herald. Most people call him the Delivery Man," she said, inclining her head toward the Blossom Tree. "He brings news from the palace."

Newt fell quiet, peering up at the herald, disconcerted. This had something to do with Crowley's brush with death this morning, probably. Lesley's face gave nothing away; he was a professional, trained never to falter in the face of bad news. "Attention one and all!" he cried, his voice echoing across the square without any magical aid. "On this day, by decree of Queen Aziraphale the First, all four dukes of the court have been suspended from service."

A ripple of shock disturbed the crowd. Lesley cleared his throat and pressed on: "This is an emergency decision, not taken lightly. This morning, former Duke Gabriel made an attack on the king's person," he said. Outrage sparked in the audience. Raised voices began to shout curses from the back, and questions that Lesley couldn't answer. He ploughed on desperately. "Evidence will be heard in private, and a full list of charges will be brought before the public on the palace steps, where His Majesty will pass down his verdict. Until said judgement, the Queen had raised an appeal for any information pertaining to the conduct of all four dukes, dating from the arrival of King Crowley in this realm. Thank you."

He stepped down from the plinth, and all hell broke loose. Debate quickly turned to argument, and Anathema knew that was likely to evolve into a brawl. She grabbed Newt's arm and began to drag him into an alley, where they could avoid the furious townsfolk altogether. Newt was perplexed. "Why's everyone so angry at each other?"

"Because they think they understand politics," she replied, taking a sharp left turn. "Anyone who says a word to defend the dukes now is asking for a broken nose. The Seelie love their royalty, _especially_ these Seelie."

"Well that's — " 

"Oh, and the idea of a public verdict for a nobleman is practically unheard of," she tagged on like an afterthought. "This isn't just for justice's sake, Newt. Aziraphale is making a statement. He wouldn’t do this unless he already knew what his answer will be."

They had all heard the announcement. Many of those who heard the speech had evidence hidden in their memories. Some were citizens. Others were guards. There was no mistaking Aziraphale's meaning; he was judge, jury and executioner, and he was asking for them to build a case against his dukes. They had been answerable to nobody but the Queen, and now, they would answer for _everything_. They held no power anymore. 

Deidre reported to the palace immediately. She'd been here before, as an archivist before she'd had Adam. She bypassed the front door, sneaking in via the kitchen door and pinching a square of chocolate from the countertop as she passed. Adam didn't get his mischievous side from nowhere, after all. She passed by multitudes of guards who recognised her from her palace days, and inclined their heads to her respectfully. She'd been the best damn Head Archivist they'd ever had, and she'd put the dukes in their place more than once, in her day. She was about to do it again. 

She knocked on the Queen's study door. A muffled _come in_ sounded from the other side, and she eased the door open. "Your majesty," she said, with a small curtsy as she stepped inside. 

"Oh. Deidre, hello, my dear," he said, setting down his quill. It was odd, being addressed in the same way as her son would be, but she didn't argue; everyone must seem like a child to a fae as old as Aziraphale. "Just the person. You wouldn't happen to be in need of a job, would you...?"

She smiled. "Perhaps, but if it's all the same to you, I have something to say first," she said. Aziraphale hummed, gesturing for her to sit down. "It's about your appeal for evidence this morning."

He grimaced. "Ah. Not a social call, then."

"No," she said, flattered that the Queen would have welcomed a casual visit from someone like her. "A few months ago, before the... serpent incident, I caught Duke Uriel stalking the King."

"Yes, Michael did mention."

"That's not all. I threatened to tell you about it, and I would have done, but..." she said, and faltered slightly as the memory shook her resolve. She brushed it off quickly. She was safe now; the dukes were in custody. "She threatened to harm Adam if I came forward."

His expression darkened. "I beg your pardon?"

"She threatened my son," she reiterated. "I swear, I would have come forward sooner if not for that..."

"I know, I know," he said, smoothing over his outrage. He looked down at his baby bump, both palms flat against it almost subconsciously. "I understand — better now than I ever have. I'm not angry at you, not a jot."

"Thank you," she said, relaxing. She didn't expect him to be, but she knew as well as anyone that pregnancy hormones could interfere with his emotions. Seeing the worry, marbled with despair and anger, overtaking his face, she shuffled forward to lean on the desk and recapture his attention. "Now that's out of the way, I have to ask... Are you excited? Not many months to go, now."

The mention of his baby pulled Aziraphale from his dark mood very efficiently. "Absolutely tickled pink, my dear," he said with a beaming smile. 

They talked about the soon-to-be heir solidly until lunchtime, and Aziraphale met Crowley in the dining room with a spring in his step. Deidre repeated her statement to the Lieutenant, just to make sure it was on-record. It was another day before the next piece of evidence arrived. 

A guard-captain sheepishly approached the royal couple in the throne room, clearing his throat. "Pardon, sires," he said, cringing beneath their twin stares. "I got some information you might be interested in, is all."

They shared a glance. "Like...?" Crowley prompted, perched on the broad arm of the throne, beside Aziraphale. 

He held up a letter with a broken purple wax seal, and handed it over. "Orders. Arrived with the outsider that revealed your, ahem... shape-shifting talent, sire," he said, kicking himself for the blatant attempt at flattery. Crowley scoffed, and handed it to Aziraphale after a cursory glance. They were orders from Gabriel, to allow the holder into the city without impediment. 

"And this is why you allowed him into the city, is it? In the midst of a crisis?" Aziraphale said, giving him a hard stare over the letter. He squirmed. 

"... Aye, sire," he said, twisting his hands together. 

"Hmph. Consider yourself suspended from duty," he said, tucking the letter into his jacket, looking haughtily down his nose at him. "You may return in one month, and let this be a lesson to you. Be more careful in future."

"Th — Thank you, your majesty," he said, retreating hurriedly out of the room, tripping over his own feet slightly. Aziraphale tsked and rolled his eyes as the doors rattled shut behind him.

"Honestly. This is the calibre of Captain in my guard these days, is it?" he tutted, shaking his head. It was only then that he looked up, and noticed Crowley smirking at him. Aziraphale frowned. "What?"

"You're sexy when you're annoyed."

A pair of guards turned up together, having debated whether to come for many days. They had only a snippet of information, that Crowley himself confirmed: Sandalphon had lied about how he'd lured Crowley into the city where he was attacked. Now the subject had cropped up a little more, they knew it was time to confirm what they already knew, though they’d both been eager to avoid this part. 

Shadwell was surprised to have royal company join him that afternoon. He sat up from the cell floor with a greasy smile. "Aaaah, finally come t' release me, have ye?"

Crowley set his jaw. "You're lucky you're not dead."

Aziraphale gently smacked his arm. "Crowley, don't be rude. We need him to cooperate," he said. He turned to Shadwell with a forced smile. "We were just hoping to ask a few quick questions."

"Aye," he said, looking at his belly with a slight frown. "Expectin' a bairn, eh?"

He blinked in surprise. "Um. Yes," he said. Crowley wrapped an arm around him, narrowing his eyes. 

He scoffed and laughed. "Now there's a funny tale," he said. "Omen o' death, creatin' a life, eh?"

"No thanks to you," Crowley muttered, rubbing his thumb in circles on Aziraphale's belly. "You nearly killed me."

"Nae, I barely touched you, ya treacherous pansy," he said, and spat in the corner of the cell. Aziraphale grimaced. "What're y'botherin' me with? Can't a man rot in prison in peace, eh?"

"Well, if you're amiable..." Aziraphale said, hoping he knew the definitions of all the words he was using. "If you tell us what we need to know, then we promise not to execute you."

He stared at him for a long moment. "Hm. Tha's a hard bargain," he said, raising his brows. "Ach, what more can I lose? What is it y'need to know, eh?"

Aziraphale beamed; this was the last piece of the puzzle! After this, surely, he'd have all he needed to write up a list of charges for Gabriel to face. It would be a full list, properly investigated, upholding all the laws that he'd built up for eons. Gabriel may have lost his integrity, but Aziraphale had not. He prided himself on it. Crowley knew so, but still... he'd been hoping they'd extract the information from Shadwell the hard way, with more threats and pointy objects. But no, he'd insisted on civility.

"Wonderful," said Aziraphale. "Now, if we could begin with the entire history of your involvement with Gabriel, that would be just splendid."

Gabriel stewed in a holding cell for days. Whispers reached him from snatches of conversations from the guards; he was going to be judged soon. It was happening in public. How fascinating... Aziraphale had finally grown a spine, it seemed. Perhaps it was the weight of that glorified parasite inside him that did it. Whatever the case, he wouldn't lie down and take the humiliation. If he couldn't avenge himself in blood, he'd do it in words. He would not be broken. He would not make it easy for the Queen.

He wasn't informed of the day of the verdict. It simply arrived. The first he knew of it was the rattling of chains, and the squeak of the cell door. The guards chained his wrists in icy silence, and manhandled him through the dungeons and out of a service door. Sunlight was unfamiliar to Gabriel by now. He winced and squirmed under its warmth like a rat emerging from a drainpipe. They rounded the corner, coming into view of the transformed palace steps.

A plateau had been formed midway up the palace steps, upon which sat two enormous chairs embellished with gold and carved with royal seals. Surrounding them there were other smaller seats, all looking down on the fenced-in section of cobbles which formed the public courtroom. Swathes of people gathered behind the wall of guards, three deep and armed, trying to get a glimpse of the proceedings even before they began. Someone screeched at the sight of Gabriel. 

"There! Look!" 

Unrest spread like wildfire. Curses were hurled like javelins over the guards' shoulders. Gabriel kept his eyes forward, and his head high. The ranks of soldiers flexed and rippled to hold back the enraged townsfolk, and he never wavered. He stood at the centre of the open-air courtroom, and stood proud. As far as he was concerned, they were below him. They always had been. 

Aziraphale stood at the double doors, alone. Crowley would be here soon and, when he was, they'd walk out together. They'd be the picture of royal authority, as one. He took deep breaths. The baby stirred inside him, sensing his distress. With a small whine, he rubbed the bump, murmuring soft comforts in the hope a familiar voice would settle them. He was so lucky to have them. His knees turned weak with relief when he thought of how many times he'd come close to marrying earlier, yet chose to wait. All this time he'd been walking a knife edge, and hardly knew. One moment of weakness could have skewed his whole future.

Footsteps approached from behind, and he let out a small sigh of relief. "Crowl — " he began, but cut himself short as he turned around. "Oh."

Michael stood before him. He looked awfully small, hanging his head beneath the high vaulted ceilings. "I am sorry, Aziraphale," he whispered. 

"Michael..." he said, drawing closer. He swallowed hard. By rights, Michael should be locked underground with the other two dukes, but his imprisonment had been suspended. "I... I can do no more for you, you realise. Waiving your trial is more than ample in exchange for your cooperation. I can’t let you keep your title."

He nodded. "I know. That’s more than I deserve," he said, with a shaky breath. People were already beginning to talk; Michael’s name was notable in its absence from the legal proceedings. The kindest solution Aziraphale could offer was exile. Aziraphale could not be seen to be soft on treason; he needed to get Michael out of the public eye, at the very least. "I don't want anything more. I just... I just need you to know how happy I am for you, and how sorry I am that I put you through all this."

Aziraphale went quiet for a moment. "I see," he said. It stung Michael in so many ways, seeing that guarded expression, knowing that he'd broken the trust between them. Aziraphale had someone else to rely on now, someone who would not fail him as Michael had. "Apology accepted, dear boy."

He breathed deeply for a moment, letting the words wash over him. They'd changed nothing. "It won't ever be the same, will it?" he said faintly, casting an eye up across the golden-brown hall around him. "Not like it was, in the Beginning."

"No. I don't imagine it will," he replied. His somber mood settled his nerves, though the melancholy was not a welcome replacement. Michael was right; when they'd met beneath this tree thousands of years ago, they had both been young, naive and idealistic... It was the two of them against the world. All that time ago, it didn't seem that would ever change, and yet here they were: a Queen and a traitor, standing in the place of those two old friends.

"Do you remember my vow?" he said, looking down at his feet. He wasn't sure if he dared bring it up until he'd already said the words. "The day we met."

"Yes," he said. His voice was as soft as a summer breeze, yet it sent a chill over Michael's skin. 

_For as long as you need me, I will be here to serve you, and everything you create;_ that was his promise. He'd failed in it so many times. He'd fallen short, distorted it, misused it... Now here Aziraphale was, happily married and pregnant, no thanks to Michael. He forced himself to look him in the eye.

"I can hardly call myself your friend anymore," he said, throat tight with emotion. "But you will always be my Queen."

"Michael..." he said, welling up slightly. Then, his eyes drifted, spotting something over his shoulder. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, a familiar swinging gait. 

"Angel? What's wrong?" Crowley said, jogging the last few paces to reach his side. He shot an accusing glance at Michael as he offered his husband a handkerchief to dry his eyes. "He giving you trouble again...?"

He shook his head. "No, dear, it's... not that," he said, dabbing his eyes carefully. He sniffled, blinking away the last of the tears, and looked at Michael with a rueful smile. "Just old friends, reminiscing."

Michael's face creased with emotion: relief, love, disbelief and gratitude, blending into one. "Thank you, sire... for humouring me," he said with a bow, once he found his voice. He began to back away. "I should take my leave."

Aziraphale gave a small nod, resting his head on his husband's collarbone. Michael turned, retreating back down the hallway. He'd leave by a service door, and skirt around to watch the proceedings without fanfare. It weighed on Aziraphale, he knew, putting aside his own laws to spare Michael his trial. His moral code was often inflexible and, in some way, he doubted he deserved what remained of Aziraphale's affection for him. He was tempted to run back, to bolster him in the face of the what he was about to do, publicly renouncing his own dukes, but... He looked over his shoulder, seeing the grand doors begin to open, flooding King and Queen with blazing sunshine, side by side now and forever. He smiled. Aziraphale had Crowley now. Michael was no longer needed. 

Arm in arm, Crowley and Aziraphale descended the stairs. Each step was taken with dignity, even with the Queen's awkward, pregnant gait. Hundreds of people had gathered to see this. Gabriel stood at the foot of the steps, staring. Aziraphale didn't let his attention settle on him until Crowley helped him into his seat, taking the one beside him. He held his hand tightly. The rest of the court, there for show more than anything, began to ascend the steps to join them in the other chairs. Whispers rose up from below. Michael was notably absent. Aziraphale leaned across, murmuring something in his husband's ear.

Crowley nodded and stood, holding up his hand for silence. The chatter petered out as he drew a scroll out from his jacket. "Today, the Queen will pass judgement on the Duke Gabriel and, by extension, his colleagues, Dukes Sandalphon and Uriel, who will be charged as accomplices to all of his crimes," he said, unrolling the parchment in his hand. It was all he could do not to whistle at the list of charges Aziraphale had written, having listened to the various people who'd presented evidence in the last few days. "Gabriel. You are accused of treason of the highest order, abuse of your station, disseminating falsehoods, libel, warmongering, intimidation, theft..."

The court around Aziraphale began to fidget in their seats. No one dared look at the Queen. They were hearing this for the first time today, just like the shocked masses gathered for the sentencing. Gabriel stood like a statue, listening to the growing list of charges against him. 

"...unlawful endangering of life on a large scale, bribery, blackmail, harassment of the Queen," Crowley continued, his voice echoing ominously across the city, "unauthorised espionage, wilful failure to inform the Queen of essential information and acting upon that information in a manner detrimental to the entire Queendom..."

Here, he paused. He wet his lips, glancing over his shoulder at Aziraphale. The Queen met his gaze, giving a tiny nod. Crowley took a deep breath, and completed the list of charges: "...and finally and most heinously of all," he said, lowering the scroll. "Attempted triple regicide."

The city fell deadly silent. The implications seeped into every crack and pore as eyes began to turn up toward the tree, now lush and in full bloom, which had once been so bare... Gabriel had stared into that abyss along with them. He had seen death in the grey skies. He’d felt it in the frost on the ground, and heard it in the rasp of dry brown leaves. He had known all this, and still, he lashed out against the royals. He could have ruined _everything._ Hearing that word, regicide... It left them without words for several long seconds as Crowley returned to his seat beside Aziraphale. 

Then, all Hell broke loose. Aziraphale flinched as the first plaintive wail rose from the crowd, a chilling cry of grief. It soon mutated into to an outraged roar across the whole crowd. The guards braced themselves. Some fae hurled themselves at the shield wall, frothing at the mouth, desperate to tear lumps out of the disgraced duke. Gabriel hadn’t just tried to kill the King, Queen and unborn heir; he’d attacked their children, their elderly, and their weak and infirm who would have no hope of surviving total collapse. He added insult to injury when he didn’t even turn to face the screaming crowds. He kept his eyes front and centre, staring at Aziraphale, as if there was nothing behind him but serene, swaying grassland. 

Aziraphale froze up. This was too much. Cold dread flooded him as those purple eyes refused to move away from him, even for a moment, refusing to let him breathe. He had a baby on the way; this couldn’t be good for them — and, and the noise! Good lord, the noise... He leaned back in his seat, gripping the armrests for dear life. This was a bad idea. He should never have made it all so public. It was foolish, stupid, absolutely —

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, making him jump. He hadn’t even noticed him lean so close to his head. “Deep breaths. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

He blinked rapidly, clearing the tears he didn’t realise were gathering. He took a long drag of the air, and let it go. He shot Crowley a tiny glance from the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he whispered. He reciprocated with a small nod. Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Aziraphale lifted his foot, and brought it down sharply on the wooden plateau. 

A resounding _crack_ split the air as his heel met the wood, echoing across the city as if the earth itself had ruptured. It shocked the cacophony into silence again. “I would appreciate a smidge more quiet. I’d like to hear myself think,” Aziraphale said, his voice amplified for all to hear. The guards breathed a collective sigh of relief as the mob slowly backed off. “Ah, thank you. Now... Gabriel, you’ll forgive me for not standing to address you. I’m rather heavy on my feet these days.”

Crowley gave a snort of laughter, and couldn’t help but reach out to touch the baby bump. _What a bastard,_ he thought, seeing the way Gabriel twitched at the pointed mention of the baby. _I love him so much._

“Have you anything to say in your defence?” Aziraphale asked, placing his hand over the top of Crowley’s. Following his lead, and always happy to torment Gabriel, Crowley leaned forward and kissed the bump, resting his forehead against it. The Queen barely acknowledged anything out of the ordinary. 

Every nerve in Gabriel’s body shivered with anger. He put on a broad, false smile. “Of course. I would like to remind the court that I have served the realm for almost two thousand two hundred years. I dedicated my youth to this Queendom, helping it grow,” he said. 

“And I would like to remind _you_ that no amount of loyal service — though I’m beginning to doubt it ever was — could redeem you of trying to murder my husband,” he said bluntly. He made a vague gesture with the hand that wasn’t playing with Crowley’s hair. “But do go on.”

Gabriel soured even further. “In that case, O Great Blossom Queen, since you’ve already made up your mind... I won’t waste my breath on defending myself,” he said, making a subtle dig at Aziraphale’s sense of justice. He knew it was a weakness of his; he’d discovered every single exploitable weakness the Queen had in his years at court. How else would he have climbed the ranks so fast otherwise? “I’ll remind you of everything you claim to be, shall I? Queen Aziraphale: the Merciful, the Forgiving, the Peaceful, the most loving of all the Seelie Queens... How much of that are you planning to hold on to, hm? How much does that matter to you?”

Crowley lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at Gabriel. “That’s not relevant to the charges,” he said, noticing the way Aziraphale began to fidget with intense discomfort. 

He shrugged, unshaken. “I’d call them fair. After all... Shouldn’t he be put on trial, too, if he’s about to order my _death?”_

“Not if I get there first, you b — ” he began, lurching out of his seat in time with the outcry from the spectators. A hand closed around his wrist. He turned, and stopped dead at the sight of Aziraphale’s pleading gaze. 

“Don’t,” he begged. Crowley forced himself back down into his chair, holding his hand tightly. Another sharp stamp of Aziraphale’s foot silenced the outraged people a second time. Gabriel smirked. Here it comes...

“I have heard the evidence. I have given the accused an opportunity to defend himself and his co-conspirators,” he said, unable to hide the slight tremor in his voice. “I find him in contempt of these proceedings, but he is not above my laws. I have decided on a verdict.”

Thousands of people held their breath. Crowley squeezed his hand gently, his heart breaking to see the tears in his eyes. Aziraphale hated this. It was a hollow victory, one he never wanted. “Gabriel, former Duke of my court and representative of your fellow conspirators,” he said, holding back bitter tears. “I find you guilty of all charges.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, I’m moving out and starting uni before the next update and I have no idea how this will impact on my update schedule. Updates may be late, and I don’t know *how* late, because I have no idea when I’ll be able to get a reliable internet connection, or indeed time to proof read. 
> 
> It also means I’ll have less time to write in general soon, because my university is notoriously demanding, which is sad, but I hope to keep on creating regardless. I really hope you’ll stick with me even if I’m slowed down a little in future, because you’re all such fantastic readers and such a great community to interact with :)
> 
> THAT SAID I would really prefer not to dwell on the fact I’m leaving soon. I just need some escapism, you know? So let’s focus on the story and forget real life for a while. I think we all need it, days like these.


	39. Judge, Jury & Executioner

Aziraphale the Merciful. Aziraphale the Forgiving. Aziraphale the Peaceful, the most loving of all the Seelie Queens... and here he was, waiting to sign a death warrant. 

It was passed between courtiers at the conference table, one by one. No one was happy about it. Some snuck glances up the table, to see if the Queen was looking as they slid the warrant to the next person without signing. Crowley saw it; Aziraphale did too, but he pretended not to. He didn't blame them. Gabriel had been a cornerstone of politics for centuries, an ally and even a friend to some sat here, and now Aziraphale was asking that they condemn him to death. Uriel and Sandalphon had been sentenced to three hundred years in prison, followed by permanent exile under threat of death. Michael was allowed to observe court proceedings without passing comment for the time being, since his sentencing had been suspended, but it couldn’t last forever. That left Gabriel, their ringleader; he had to go. He had to die... Didn't he?

He watched the steady progression of the warrant toward him. It wouldn't be valid until it bore his seal and signature. No matter how many nobles signed that paper, it would be Aziraphale that struck the killing blow — not with a sword, nor the hangman's rope, but with a quill and a few drops of wax. 

_Shouldn't he be put on trial, too, if he's about to order my death?_

Those had been his words. How was signing his death warrant any different than driving a dagger through his heart? Gabriel had a family. He had a sister, a niece, a mother and a father. They would be as heartbroken as Aziraphale would have been, if Gabriel's crime had succeeded. How could he do such a thing? Punish those who had done nothing to deserve it but love someone who was never worthy of love? Surely that was admirable, to be so giving...

Crowley took the death warrant, picking up the quill before Michael's signature had even had a chance to dry. He signed it without hesitation. The scratch of the nib made Aziraphale wince. The paper hissed against the varnished tabletop as Crowley slid it under his nose. "All yours, angel," he said flippantly, returning the quill to the inkwell. 

A candle burned by Aziraphale's left hand. Beside it, a stick of red wax, and a stamp bearing his royal seal. Only it wasn't just his anymore, was it? He ran his hand over his belly, tight and heavy with the life inside. What example was he setting for them, in doing this? How could he bring a life into the world when there was blood on his hands? 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley said, when he made no move to reach for the quill. "Something wrong?"

He gulped. "I've... I've never signed one of these before," he said quietly. He looked away from it, nausea stirring in his gut. "I don't think I can."

"Wh — ? Yes, you can. Easiest thing in the world," he said, taken aback. He tapped the dotted line at the foot of the paper, beneath the crowd of signatures from the court. "Sign your name on the line, seal it, and you're done. He's gone."

"Don't be so flippant, Crowley," he snapped. "This is someone's life like we're discussing here. If... If I do this, I'm no better than him."

The court knew better than to gossip about this, but still, glances were shared among them. Michael was the most stunned of them all. "Is this about what he said at the sentencing?" Crowley said with a sharp edge to his voice. "He was just trying to get in your head and save his own skin. Ignore it."

"I can't ignore my conscience," he said, staring at his baby bump. Crowley sighed, his demeanour softening as he began to see what Aziraphale meant. 

"Angel... You can't let him win. Not now, not after everything he's done," he said, reaching for his hand. Aziraphale drew away, conflicted and guilt-ridden. Michael hung his head, feeling the same. Even now, disgraced and hanging over a cliff by nothing but a thread of goodwill, Gabriel managed to twist the knife in Aziraphale's heart.

"He could be imprisoned and exiled," said the Queen. "Like the others."

"He'll come back," Crowley said. 

"You don't know that," he said, looking away.

"I do. I saw the look in his eye. I've seen it a thousand times, angel, and I know a man beyond redemption when I see one," he said, struggling not to grit his teeth. Thousands of years of death and long, empty roads flashed behind his eyes. "He wants revenge. We got lucky this time, don't you see?"

"Obviously I see that," he said, a trifle sharp. "But he has nothing left to lose now. It just seems petty, to take even more from him."

"That's exactly _why_ he has to die, Aziraphale," he insisted. "If he gets a shot at coming back here, he'll take it, and he'll come for the one thing that would hurt us more than anything."

Aziraphale felt his hand rest on top of his swollen belly. His breath hitched. "He wouldn't," he said, his head snapping around to look Crowley in the eye. "No."

"He would," he said, rubbing gentle circles on his abdomen. There was nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "Our baby is the most precious thing we have, angel. If you won't do it for yourself... do it for them."

Aziraphale stared at the death warrant. Crowley was right. Exile was not a safe solution... but that didn't make death the only remaining option. He took a deep breath. "Perhaps we should consider a life sentence instead, then," he said. Crowley slumped in his chair.

"Aziraphale, _please_..."

"I can't just kill a man, Crowley!" he cried, raising his voice, cracking under the pressure. "He has a mother, for God's sake! How can I kill someone else's baby, knowing full well what kind of pain I'm inflicting?"

"He's not a baby, he's a violent fucking criminal who deserves what he gets!" he retorted, losing his patience. 

Aziraphale flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed. Already, the familiar heat of tears built behind them. He buried his face in one hand, half-heartedly covering his distress. Crowley kicked himself. He shouldn't have said that. Or he shouldn't have been so harsh, at least. Aziraphale was stressed as it was, even without being heavily pregnant, and he wasn't helping. He turned his glare on the spectating courtiers, all of whom were doing their best to go unnoticed. 

"Out. All of you," he said, jerking his head toward the door. They didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled to their feet, hurrying to get out of the tense atmosphere in the room. Crowley grabbed the warrant and thrust it at Michael. "Take this somewhere else. We'll handle it later."

"Yes, sir," he said, folding it up and sliding it into his pocket. He was the last out, shutting the door softly behind him. 

Finally, steeped in silence, Aziraphale sniffled and trembled, his face crumpling. Crowley daren't touch him, not after what he'd said. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. That was harsh," he said, staring at the floor. 

"It wasn't really. You're right," he rasped. "He is a criminal. He may deserve this, but it's not... it's not that easy. Not for me."

"I know, angel," he said, reaching over and gently taking his hand. "You're too good for this whole shitty situation." 

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'm glad somebody thinks so."

"We'll figure this out. If you're that against it, then... we'll do something else," he said, looking him in the eye, trying to shore up his confidence and settle his nerves. "I don't know what yet, but we'll figure that out later. For now, let's just... let's just be a family."

"Excellent idea," he said, pushing his chair back to reach for him, wrapping his arms around his neck. They rested their foreheads together. "Would you rub my belly for me? It's very comforting."

He smiled. "Love to," he said, pushing his chair back and getting on his knees. Aziraphale quirked a brow. Crowley pushed his jumper up, revealing the thin linen shirt underneath which was perfectly tailored to accommodate his new shape. Crowley used to wonder why Aziraphale ordered new fitted clothes that he'd outgrow every few weeks, instead of wearing stretchy ones... until he realised that he wasn't planning on using them once and never again. He was nothing if not well-organised, and he had already begun to build himself a whole pregnancy wardrobe, ready for more. A warm glow filled Crowley's chest as he massaged the bump, pressing his ear against it. He was so proud of Aziraphale. Carrying a baby and running a Queendom, all at once. 

"Isn't Papa perfect, hm?" he murmured against him. 

"Crowley..." Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes with a helpless smile.

"Sshh, me and Apple are talking," he said. The baby kicked, as if to agree. "See?"

He chuckled. "Ah, pardon me, then. Do go on."

Crowley turned his attention back to the baby, and began talking as if they'd said something to him. "...yeah, I know. I love him too," he said. He paused, nodding and humming in agreement. "Hm. You're probably right. He doesn't treat himself enough. What do you think? Should I fetch him some tea, biscuits...?"

Aziraphale tucked a strand of hair behind Crowley's ear. "Not that I'm eavesdropping, dear, but that would be splendid."

Gabriel's death warrant weighed heavy in Michael's pocket. That had to be his fate. Aziraphale was no fool — he knew what Gabriel deserved — but his conscience made the thought unbearable. There was no way he could've prepared himself for this. He was too good-natured to have braced himself to kill a man he'd known for centuries. Michael had seen the machinations of Gabriel’s mind, though; no prison would hold him to the end of time. He would escape. Maybe not this year, or this century, or even this millennium... but he would, and when he did, he would only need a tiny window of time to exact his revenge. Crowley was right to fear for his baby. It represented everything that they loved, and everything Gabriel hated. There would be no finer vengeance than to murder Aziraphale's firstborn.

Aziraphale would blame himself. He'd wither away with the grief, and even Crowley would be helpless to stop it. Who knew if they'd have any other heirs by then, to take his place? Would they survive the death of their father and elder sibling, or would the sorrow kill them too?

Michael stopped at the archive desk. "Place this in a safe-box, strictly confidential," he said, handing them the warrant. "The King will want to collect it later."

Gabriel had gone mad, yes, but he hadn't lost his cunning. He'd known exactly what words to use, to agitate Aziraphale's sense of justice. He was unique among Queens, never one to jump to violence as a first response. He honestly believed in fair-play, and in forgiveness, and Gabriel had always insisted it would be his downfall. Now, he wanted to prove that. Michael wanted to be wrong, but he knew he wasn't. Crowley would listen to his concerns, he knew, but he couldn't risk that. He'd only do something stupid. He couldn't afford to throw away all the respect he'd built up after his return from exile. Aziraphale needed him to be a King, not a vigilante. 

But... Crowley wasn't the only one who saw Gabriel for what he was. He wasn't the only one who cared for the Queen. Michael walked the halls, dimly aware of where his feet were taking him. Six thousand years ago, he'd made a vow: to protect Aziraphale, and everything he created; from the city, to the law, to the baby he'd dreamed of for eons. Michael didn't hold the place in his heart that he once had. If it was possible to redeem himself for all he'd done, this was his chance. He could make his sacrifice and stand between Gabriel and the Queen, like he should have done from the start. 

He stood at the doors which concealed the long, dark passage down to the lowest reaches of the tunnels under the Blossom Tree. The guards acknowledged him as he passed, opening the doors. Michael hesitated. The air was still beneath ground, hidden from the sun and the sky. Still... That was no reason to turn back. 

He started down the staircase, through the brick-lined tunnel. Water dripped in the dark. Every sound echoed eerily as he delved deeper into the earth, passing empty cell after empty cell. He resisted the urge to run through the shadows that lurked where the lamplight was dim. This was no place for the good, and you could read it on every brick and flickering lantern. 

The ground levelled out, opening into a brighter room where two guards sat at a table, playing cards, beside a heavy metal door. Michael cleared his throat. "I'm here to see Gabriel."

A guard arched a brow. "Is this authorised?"

"He has a right to visitors," he replied. The soldiers shared a glance, and shrugged.

"Alright. Not like there's any escape from this godforsaken place, anyway," they said, standing to open the door. Michael tried not to scowl; that was exactly the kind of hubris that Gabriel would taken advantage of, to break free from his cell when they least expected it. "I would give you a time limit, but you can just stay as long as you can bear his smug face for."

He inclined his head in thanks, and stepped inside. Lamps burned on both sides of the room, which was split in half by thick metal bars. There was hardly a hint of nature in this prison; it looked more human than fae. Gabriel sat, his back straight and tall, on a bed of straw. He'd been watching the door, waiting, always pretending like he was one step ahead of the game. 

"Michael. What a surprise," he said flatly. "Has selling out your allies not paid off like you expected?"

"It was never about the payoff," he said sternly. "It was about fixing the mess you made."

"And how's that working out for you?" he said, pushing himself off the ground to pace back and forth behind the bars. "I notice that no-one's come in to tell me I'm being executed yet. I wonder why."

There was a knowing glint in his eye, and a smug smile on his lips. Michael crossed his arms tightly. "You're scum."

"So are you," he said, approaching bars like a predator stalking its prey. "They won't let you keep your title. You'll lose everything, Michael... Thousands of years of your life, wasted. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Of course it does. Last time I checked, it was getting tangled up with you that ruined it for me," he said, squaring his shoulders and forcing his arms back down by his sides. His hand rested on the hilt of the dagger on his belt. They stood nose to nose, separated by the bars. 

"And yet, here you are," he said with a slimy grin, leaning on the bars. 

Michael hummed. "Here I am," he said, slowly, silently drawing his dagger from its sheath. "You aren't leaving this cell, Gabriel. I know what you want."

"Really," he said, sneering. He scoffed and shook his head. "That's not a secret by now, Michael... I didn't think you were really _that_ slow."

"Have you no shame?" he said, a spark of anger kindling to life in his chest. "Aziraphale only wants to be happy. He _was_ happy, before you started threatening his family."

His expression curdled. "Family?" he snarled. He slammed his fist on the bars. The clang struck Michael like a punch; he flinched hard. "There's no family in that palace. It's a serpent's breeding ground, don't you see? _Someone_ needs to act, sooner or later... and I will, Michael. I will."

Michael set his jaw, forcing himself not to flinch away. He'd forestalled this long enough. "I know," he whispered, almost to himself. He leant closer, almost through the bars, until he could feel Gabriel's breath on his face. He knew he wouldn't back down. Without breaking eye contact, Michael drew back his arm and drove his dagger between Gabriel's ribs. He choked, gripping the bars. Michael pressed harder, unwavering, as he twisted the knife. "You will not harm that baby."

"M... Michael...?" he wheezed, stumbling backward. The blade slid free. A bloodstain blossomed over his shirt, spreading and growing, plastering the fabric to his skin. He started to hyperventilate. "Wh... what've you...?"

His knees buckled. The jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through him, driving out the last of the air from his lungs. His muscles trembled, burning and freezing all at once as his body screamed its last. Michael watched, miserable. Gabriel tried to reach for him, gurgling as red foam gathered at his lips and spilt down his chin. He whimpered, and collapsed onto the hard stone. The impact against his jaw barely registered; the sensation was distant and dim. Blood pooled beneath him. His heart stuttered and fell out of rhythm. An agonising sob wracked his body as the cold realisation settled around him, that this is how his story would end. 

In the distance, he heard the tolling of a bell...

A tingle ran down Crowley's spine. He froze, instinctively snapping his eyes onto Aziraphale, who was peacefully enjoying his tea. Crowley grasped his pregnant belly urgently, drawing a surprised _oh!_ from him as he pressed his forehead against it, dread consuming his every nerve, probing for any hint of death lingering in his womb. He sighed in deep, palpable relief when he found nothing. The baby was safe. For a split second, he'd feared that the stress of the death warrant had had grave consequences. 

"Crowley? What's gotten into you?" Aziraphale asked, setting down his teacup.

He shuddered as another tingle trickled down his back, like a drop of freezing water. "Look, uh... I don't want to alarm you, but..." he said, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Someone's about to die."

"What? Who?" he cried, gripping his belly with a gasp of horror. "Not the baby!"

"No, no, I just checked. Baby's fine. It's not you, either," he said, massaging his temples, trying to pinpoint where the call was trying to pull him. Down, somewhere deep down, maybe even below ground... "Shit. Angel, stay here."

He leapt from his seat, barrelling out of the conference room despite Aziraphale's cries of protest. It was in the dungeons. Shit, shit, if — if one of the guards was about to die, Gabriel could be escaping. He could be on his way up. If Crowley could head him off before he got above ground, he could recapture him and send him right back where he came from. He might even get away with killing him in self-defence this time...

"With me! On your guard!" he shouted as he sprinted past a trio of duty-guards. They startled, and lurched into action, hurrying after their king without question. 

Their footfalls echoed through the corridors, shrieking on the wood as they rounded the final corner before the tunnel. Crowley never hesitated. He pelted down the steps, conjuring his whip in his hand. One crack, and Gabriel was done for. It would be that easy. Aziraphale would just have to forgive him. He heard a soldier trip behind him, toppling to the ground; he didn't stop. There wasn't time.

He burst into the open room, startling the door-guards to their feet. "Your majesty!" they exclaimed, cards scattering as they scrambled to salute him. Crowley skidded to a halt. He held up his hand, halting his soldiers where they stood. 

"What's going on down here?" he said, suspicious. This could be a trap. He adjusted his hold on his whip, poised to strike. "Was anyone hurt?"

They shared a baffled glance. "N — No, sire," one said. "Duke Michael's in there now, visiting... It's been very quiet."

Crowley's shoulders slumped. That meant... well, it could mean only two things. He stepped forward, laying his hand against the door, listening closely. If anything moved inside, it was muffled by the stone and metal. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, easing the door open by a sliver. He peered inside. He saw nothing but a thin line of half-lit rock.

"It's safe," said a voice from inside. It was raspy and tired — and definitely not Gabriel. "He's... He's not here anymore."

"Michael," he said, with a sigh of both relief and defeat. He pushed the door open even further, revealing the scene. The guards cursed in horror. "You've been busy."

Gabriel lay face-down on the stone, in a pool of blood which had already stopped spreading. There was no heartbeat to make him bleed any more. Michael sat in the corner, dagger still in hand and a hollow look in his eye. Crowley knew that look; he'd seen this before, and worse. Friends kill friends. They kill enemies. Sometimes — like now — it's conveniently both at once, but it was nothing new. Not to him. Not to the Dullahan.

Michael rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I did what I consider to be my duty," he said, drawing a shaky breath. His eyes flicked to the body. His stomach turned. "I... I take full responsibility."

Crowley hung his whip on his belt, and extended his hand toward him. "On your feet," he said, pulling him up. He clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a fortifying squeeze. They shared a moment of understanding, of that mutual respect they'd cultivated in the months since Crowley's return. "You're a good friend, Michael. Aziraphale will remember that."

He gave a short laugh, and shook his head. "Just promise me one thing, Crowley," he said. "You look after that Queen. Do a better job than I did."

"Promise," he said, inclining his head. 

Footsteps echoed in the tunnels. "Crowley?" called a familiar voice, followed by a familiar pregnant gait. 

Michael's face crumpled at the sound. “God — Please, don’t let him see me like this,” he said, backing into the far wall. 

Crowley blanched, eyes darting between Michael and the door. He bolted through it, pulling it shut as he swept into the larger room. Aziraphale emerged from the tunnel. He was breathing heavily, weighed down by the baby, and wild-eyed with panic. "What's going on?" he said.

"Angel, stop, go back upstairs. Please," he said, shouldering aside the guards. He grasped him by the shoulders, trying to push him back. Even pregnant, Aziraphale was still as strong as an ox, and resisted. "Don't go in there."

"What? Why?" he said, straining to look past him. 

"I'll explain upstairs, just don't — don't look — " he begged, unaware of the door creaking open again behind him. Aziraphale shrieked, clapping a hand over his mouth. Crowley twisted, seeing the bloody scene behind him through the half-open door. “Aziraphale, _please_ go back upstairs. This isn’t good for the baby.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, clinging to his blazer. “I’m not going without you,” he said. “Who did this? Was it... self-inflicted?”

Crowley shook his head, easing him gently toward the tunnel. One of the guards pulled the door shut, shielding the crime scene from view. Michael was still inside, hiding in the corner, unwilling to face his Queen with blood on his hands. They’d deal with him later. “It was Michael,” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “He did what he thought was right, angel... He didn’t want you to make that choice.”

Tears gathered in his eyes. “F — For Heaven’s sake!” he said, resting his forehead on Crowley’s chest. He held him as close as his pregnancy would allow. “Wh — What are we going to _do?”_

He rubbed his back gently. “Let me take care of it,” he murmured. “I’ll sort it. No one has to know.”

He sniffled, and shook his head. “Crowley, I — I can’t — ”

“Sshh, sshh,” he said, kissing him on the head. He could still do right by Michael, if he tried; there would be no medals for his sacrifice, no rewards... but there could still be mercy. That much, he deserved. “You don’t have to lift a finger. Let me do this for you, angel.”

He stood in his arms, trembling. It was a tempting offer; at long last, to place these decisions in someone else’s hands, and take a step back. He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said breathlessly. He felt his baby stir inside him, moved by the jostling and distress. “Do what you must.”

Crowley nodded, rubbing the bump, soothing the child inside. He looked at the guards by the door; some paced back and forth, others stared blankly at the floor. They stood to attention when Crowley cleared his throat, fixing them with a sombre stare. “Today... Gabriel took the coward’s way out. He took his own life before he faced his punishment,” he said, his words heavy with meaning. “He was dead before anyone knew what happened. None of you are at fault.”

The two door-guards shuffled uncomfortably. They knew what he meant; they’d allowed Michael into the cell, and shared the blame for Gabriel’s murder. The other three soldiers nodded, overwhelmed by the political web they’d unwittingly tumbled into. “Aye, sire,” said one of them. The others echoed her. 

“Good,” he said, urging Aziraphale up the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder. “One of you let Michael know what happened, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will almost definitely be a few days late, sorry xx  
> Thanks for all your understanding last chapter though <3


	40. The Dullahan’s Lullaby

Michael stood at the palace doors, in the dead of night. A bag was slung over his shoulder. All was quiet; Aziraphale stood beside him. "Ten years," the Queen said softly. "Hardly an exile at all, really..."

He smiled forlornly. "Maybe I'll grow a beard."

"Good idea. No one will recognise you when you come back," he said with a weak hint of humour. There was a beat of silence. He bit his lip, wavering. "You will come back, won't you?"

"I'm surprised you want me back. You can't keep forgiving people all the time, you know," he said, hitching his travel bag higher on his shoulder. 

"Watch me," he said stubbornly. They shared a small chuckle. There was something in the air, something like a six-thousand-year-old memory of two friends meeting under an apple-blossom. "Besides, you have to come back and meet my baby — though I suppose they won't really be a baby anymore."

"You might have another bun in the oven by then, too, if Crowley has anything to do with it," he said, nudging him on the arm. "I'll make sure I bring a gift."

"I'll hold you to that," he said. He looked him in the eye, with a deep remorse in his heart. "I will miss you, dear boy."

"You won't have time to miss me with a young family on your hands," he said. He extended his hand to shake. "Until next time, Aziraphale."

He took his hand. "See you soon, my friend," he said, his throat tight. "Mind how you go."

Aziraphale crept back into his bedroom, where Crowley was waiting for him. He waited until he approached the bed before reaching out and taking him in his arms. There, in his husband's embrace, Aziraphale finally opened the floodgates, and he cried. Michael was gone. Gabriel was dead. The other dukes were in prison. All he'd wanted was to follow his heart, and his whole court had fallen down around his ears. Where did he go from here?

Crowley eased him onto the bed, and lifted his jumper over his head, pulling it off. "Let's get in bed, hm?" he said. Aziraphale nodded, letting him unbutton his shirt and pull it off, running his hand over his belly as he went. He paused, brushing the tears from his eyes. "It's not your fault, Aziraphale."

"What?" he sniffled.

"This. Any of it," he said, making a broad gesture at the room. "Gabriel made his choice. So did Michael. So did I."

He nodded slowly, and sighed. "I know that, but... I've lost so much, Crowley. I have no dukes, and... Michael's been here almost as long as I've existed."

"You've gained a lot, too, though," he said softly, his eyes dropping to the baby bump. Aziraphale smiled tiredly; that was true. "Dukes can be replaced. Exiles can end. Life can't be replaced, though, angel, believe me... So long as our baby's safe, we'll have gained more than we've ever lost."

Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to him. "Oh, look at you. A poet-king," he said, resting his head against his warm collarbone as the tension slipped away from his body. "I love you, my dear."

"Love you too, angel," he said warmly, wrapping an arm around him. He nuzzled the soft blond curls on his head, breathing deeply from that familiar scent. "My Queen... Hm. Never thought I'd say that."

"I never thought I'd be lucky enough to hear it from you, once," he replied. He reached up, trailing his fingertips across Crowley's bare chest lightly. "I've given it a little thought, you know, since we're on the topic of rank. The new dukes."

"Aziraphale. We're having a moment here," he said in slightly exasperation. "Can we leave the politics alone for like, two seconds?"

One second of silence passed. Then, another. 

Satisfied that he'd given him the allotted time, Aziraphale continued: "I should like to offer Deidre the title," he said. 

"What, Adam's mum?" he said, pulling back with a frown.

"She was my Head Archivist once. She was very capable, and compassionate," he reasoned, shuffling back onto the mattress a little more and lying down with a small groan. He needed to take the strain off his back; his baby's extra weight strained it terribly after a while.

"Yeah, I like her, but... she's no politician, Aziraphale."

"That's rather the point," he said with a huff. "I've had quite enough of self-important noblemen playing silly games with my people's lives. It's time for a fresh start."

"Huh. I was going to suggest Lesley for the position," he said, lying down beside him. Aziraphale hummed. 

"That's a jolly good suggestion, actually," he admitted. Lesley was experienced, level-headed, and honest; he'd make a damn good duke. "Alright then. Deidre, Lesley, and...?"

Crowley pursed his lips. "Newt?" he said. Aziraphale's brow creased with immediate scepticism. Crowley sat up, holding up his finger to stop his protests. "Hear me out. He's smart, he's almost as well-read as you are, and as loyal as they come. I've known him since the day he was made. He won't double-cross us. He doesn't have the balls."

"I suppose an Unseelie duke would be useful. I expect some Unseelie folk may settle here, now you're king, and they need more than one representative at court if they're to feel at-home," he said, mulling it over. "But he has very little experience of... well, of life."

"Deidre and Lesley can help him out. If you want to create a whole new breed of duke, I reckon he's a good bet," he said. He shrugged, folding his hands behind his head. "Tell you what. Sign him on, and I'll fire him myself if he's shit at it."

"... Deal."

Three letters bearing the royal seal were dispatched the next morning. The first went through the usual channels, passed from Aziraphale to a messenger to Lesley himself. He'd just finished breakfast when the envelope was dropped onto his table, between him and Maude. He frowned when he saw the wax crest on the front.

"Uh oh... Hope I'm not in trouble," he said with a lighthearted chuckle, laced with genuine worry. The court was a little jumpy lately, prone to suspicion, since the dukes' conspiracy had been revealed. He hoped nobody had started pointing fingers at innocent parties. Maude didn't share his mirth. She stared at the letter with deep worry; she was no fool, and she knew how fickle politics could be, same as him. 

"Open it," she said, taking his hand and giving it a firm squeeze. He nodded, cracking the seal and slowly drawing out the parchment. He unfolded it, and read it over. He read it again. He read it at least six times in stunned silence before Maude cracked. "Well? Lesley?"

He gulped. "I've been promoted," he said faintly.

Maude visibly relaxed. "Thank heavens. What are you now?" she asked, expecting a minor jump in rank.

"I'm going to be a Duke," he said, handing her the paper. She gawked, snatching it from his hand. A broad grin began to tug at her lips. 

"Oh, Lesley!" she cried, dragging him into a tight hug, peppering his face with kisses. A matching smile quickly spread over his face, too. "I'm so proud of you!"

The second letter was placed in capable hands. Adam didn't think much of it, handing it to his mother after his morning shift in the palace. Deidre took it, mildly surprised. Maybe it was an invitation to tea...? Aziraphale did say he'd have to invite her over at some point. She opened the letter, skimming it as she took a sip from her mug.

She choked on her tea, breaking down into a coughing fit. Adam looked up from playing with Dog. "Mum?" he said. "What's wrong?"

She set down her mug, wide-eyed. "Erm... It's nothing, sweetie, um," she said, folding the letter over with a smile of disbelief. "I just got a new job, that's all. Will you fetch your father in, so I can tell you both together?"

The final letter was hand-delivered by the king himself. He arrived at Newt's door, brandishing the sealed envelope between two fingers. "Morning. Got something for you," he said. Newt frowned, holding out his hand, but Crowley didn't give him the letter. "Hang on. First, you've got to promise me you won't go strange."

His brow furrowed, rubbing his eyes. He'd only crawled out of bed because someone had knocked at his bedroom door. "I promise?" he said, bemused.

"And you've got to say yes. I've got a bet on with Aziraphale," he added.

"I don't trust you. Say yes to what?" he said, crossing his arms. Rolling his eyes, Crowley finally handed over the paper, letting him crack the seal and unfold the parchment. All the colour drained from his face. "No!"

Crowley groaned. "Oh, come on. Please?" he said. "It'll really impress Anathema."

"No it — Why would I — ? She's my friend," he spluttered, turning red and avoiding eye contact. He'd made regular visits to the infirmary to offer his help, which usually ended with him handing Anathema whatever she needed from her medical bag, but she didn't seem averse to his company — which, for her, was already tantamount to affection. "... d'you really think so?"

"If you're any good at it, I don't see why not," he said noncommittally. Rank on its own certainly wouldn't impress the head nurse, but competency? Integrity? Responsibility? That might. 

"Well... Maybe I'll try it, then," he said nervously. Crowley clapped him on the shoulder.

"Brilliant. You'll be inducted in a couple of weeks. Don't let me down," he said, and moved off down the hall, leaving Newt stood in his bedroom door, at a loose end. He'd be fine once he woke up a bit. 

The Lieutenant carried a release order — signed and sealed by the Queen himself — down to the dungeons. She didn't like this, but she was in no position to argue. She wasn't going deep enough beneath ground to pass by Uriel and Sandalphon's cells, at least. She couldn't bear to look at them anymore. She'd taken orders from them, once, only to discover that they'd turned against their own Queen. They were disgraceful. Once they were sent into exile, she intended to enforce it _very_ strictly; they wouldn't make it past the borders in one piece.

She halted outside Shadwell's cell. He squinted at her through the murky light. "Aye?"

"The Queen sends his regards," she said, then handed the release order through the bars. "And his thanks. You're being released — on the understanding that you never return."

"An exile, eh?" he said with a wry smile, hauling himself to his feet as she unlocked the door. "Better than a broken neck, s'pose."

"Count yourself lucky that our Queen is merciful, then," she said dryly, letting him out. She grasped his arm tightly before he could scurry off up the stairs. "I will be escorting you out of the realm, sir. King's orders."

He huffed, cursed and struggled feebly as she took him up to the ground floor. A cloak was unceremoniously tossed over his head, to hide his identity as she walked him through the streets. She smiled and nodded to citizens as she passed. No one paid much attention to her prisoner, thankfully; Aziraphale would not be happy if yet another angry mob began making rash decisions, again. 

Shadwell walked with a slouch, grumbling all the way beneath the gate and through the wild meadow until a ring of mushrooms appeared by his feet. He gave a start of surprise. "Ach, ye dinnae tell me I'd be cast out t' the human world!" he cried. 

The Lieutenant smiled. "Better than a broken neck," she said glibly, and gave him a firm shove into the circle. The air rippled, swallowing him whole. She waited a few moments and, when he didn't come back, she dusted off her hands and turned back the way she came. "Good riddance."

Shadwell picked himself off the ground, cursing the Seelie race and the harebrained Dullahan who married into it. Fine. He kicked aside the undergrowth, stomping through the dark woods before him. He wasn't sure which way home was, not that it bothered him anyway; there wasn't much there besides the crumbling roof and leaky windows. He wandered aimlessly between the trees, looping back on himself several times without even noticing, each time becoming more convinced that he must be getting somewhere now. Bit by bit, hour by hour, as his legs grew weary, all his swearing and crashing through the undergrowth managed to attract some attention.

"Hello? Is somebody there?" called a woman's voice through the trees. Shadwell froze. He caught a flash of a bright, multicoloured cloak somewhere to his left. 

"Be gone wit' ya!" Shadwell shouted, his voice echoing eerily. "I'm no wee lost bairn. Leave me be, hoor!"

The woman quickly followed his voice, spotting the hunched figure. She hopped over the fallen branches, approaching him without compunction. "I knew I'd heard someone out here," she said cheerily. "What's your name, hm? It seems these parts are just crawling with fae these days."

He squinted at her. "Ye know o' the fae, eh?" he said, and she nodded. "Hm... Me name's Shadwell."

"Nice to meet you, Mister S. I'm Tracy," she said, reaching out to shake his hand. With a hint of suspicion, he took it. "I know we've just met, but if you don't mind me asking, are you from the Blossom Realm? I hear there's been trouble there recently."

"Aye. Somethin' about that pansy Seelie Queen and his nancy of a husband," he said, gritting his teeth. Best to stay quiet about his own role in events; not all Queens were as soft as Aziraphale when it came to spies and mercenaries. "It came to nothin' in the end — 'cept a wee baby on the way."

Her face lit up. "They're having a baby?" she said, pressing her hand to her chest. "Well, that's a relief. I love a happy ending, don't you?" 

He grunted. "S'pose."

Buoyed up by the good news, she gestured behind her, into the forest. "You look a bit lost, Mister S. Would you like to come back to mine, perhaps have a bite to eat...?" she said, gently taking his elbow and urging him along with her. "I'm sure a gentleman such as yourself would make wonderful conversation."

"Er... well... You're not wrong," he said, puffing his chest out a little, following along without argument. "Now y'mention it."

The day dragged by. Though Crowley had been a comfort the night before, the absence of Michael and other recent events still weighed on Aziraphale inescapably. His back and feet were sore from the weight of the baby, and he was starting to get peckish. He sat in the study, working through his papers, slumped and listless. He idly tapped a tune on his belly. Just outside these walls, the apple was growing and maturing, taking on the first hints of a red colour. Everything was going well. It was just a waiting game now, amidst the fallout of Gabriel's plots.

The study door opened softly. "Psst. Hey, angel," Crowley said, poking his head inside. "Ditch the paperwork. C'mon."

He put the quill back in the inkwell. "What for?"

"I've got something planned," he said, beckoning him over. "Call it a celebration."

He stood up, leaning heavily on the desk as he walked around it. "What's the occasion?" he said, taking Crowley's arm.

"Deidre just got back to us. She's accepted the offer," he said, leading him through the hallways, taking as much of his weight as he could manage. "That's all three of them. We have our dukes."

Aziraphale smiled broadly. That was some good news, at long last. They chatted idly about whatever came to mind as they walked the halls, and it was only when Crowley led him outside that Aziraphale realised he didn't know where they were going. "Where are you taking me, you fiend?" he said as Crowley helped him down the palace steps, into the gardens.

"You'll see," he said, as they strolled through the gardens. Aziraphale began to puff and pant by the time they reached the other side.

"I do hope you realise that if you make me walk much further, I'll have you carry me back," he said. 

"Good thing I've got a ride, then," he said, nodding ahead. They passed under the willow arch, finding an imposing black funeral coach sat on the trail which snaked away through the hills and out of sight. Azrael, Carmine, Snowy and Sable were hitched onto it, while Mercury stood on the grass nearby with Genesis bouncing around his feet. The little foal had boundless energy, and his poor father could rarely keep pace. Crowley opened the side door with a low bow. "Your carriage awaits, your majesty."

He hesitated. "And it won't...?"

"Kill you? No," he said. The Cóiste Bodhar was a famed coach-of-the-dead; Crowley used it to move groups of people who'd died together, to save him having to go back and forth with only one horse. "It's a completely normal coach, angel. Totally safe."

"Ah, that's alright then," he said, taking his hand and letting him help him up into the carriage. The coach swayed a little as he threw his weight down into the plush leather seats with a deep sigh of relief. Crowley shut the door behind him, leaving him in the cosy surroundings of white upholstered walls, trimmed with gold, with a mahogany floor. It didn't look at all like the large, black beast of a carriage that it had been from the outside. As it jolted into motion, and he heard Crowley whistling for Mercury and Genesis to follow along, he was rather soothed by the rocking of the carriage. 

He pushed back the curtain covering the window, watching the realm rush by. They were moving no faster than poor Genesis could run, though the little equine was going as fast as his legs could carry him. He whinnied in excitement. He'd never been beyond the pastures before! Mercury kept one eye on him, and the other on Azrael's sleek flanks. He'd have followed that coach anywhere. 

Crowley steered them through the grasslands and over the moor, until they came upon a sheltered heath that soaked up the best of the sun. A stream ran nearby, and Genesis and Mercury ran for it before Crowley's feet had even hit the ground. He unhitched his horses, gesturing at the water. "Get yourselves a drink and have a wander. Don't go too far," he said, patting Sable on the shoulder. Carmine pushed past Crowley to walk by Sable's side; he didn't know if horses could tell stories to each other, but if he didn't know any better, he'd say the fiery mare knew of the heroic dash Sable had made to the Blossom Realm. He smirked. It looked like Sable might have a better shot at her than Snowy, after all.

He opened the coach door, holding out his arm to help Aziraphale down. The Queen looked around at the remote, beautiful land, blushing with heather and blooming gorse. "What a scenic spot," he said. "Now will you tell me why we're here?"

Crowley held up the picnic basket in his free hand. "Lunch," he said with a grin. Aziraphale softened immediately, sharing his smile.

They laid out the picnic blanket, and Crowley piled up several velvet cushions he'd brought along to support Aziraphale's back. "How was the ride over?" he asked, picking out the foods from the basket. He'd told Petronius to pack the perfect romantic picnic, and he'd outdone himself; he had everything from delicate truffles to summer fruits to a chilled cordial which served as a perfect substitute for alcohol. 

"Surprisingly comfortable. It's very roomy," he said, taking the sandwich Crowley handed him. He rested the plate on his belly while he ate. 

He hummed in agreement. "Yeah, it's not bad. Big luxury job, got it from some artisan craftsman who thought I was there to reap his soul," he said, digging through the basket. "I was gonna tell him I just wanted a coach made, then he offered me one for free in exchange for his life and I thought... well, job's a good 'un. Deal."

Aziraphale tutted, but the smile on his lips betrayed his amusement. "What a rotten trick."

He shrugged. "Humans. Sometimes it's best to just let them think what they want," he said. "How'd you think my mythology happened?"

"Hm... there was one thing I've always been curious about," he said, and Crowley made a vague gesture for him to go on. "I've heard rumour that you can snatch someone's soul from their body just by calling their name."

He let out a long, melodramatic groan. "Oh for — that was _one time!_ " he cried in frustration. He slumped back, facing his husband. "I was out in the mainland, 'cause I'd heard there was some ghost or other hanging about where they shouldn't be, figured I should take a look."

He frowned. "Ghost?"

"Yeah. Real but rare, don't worry about it. They just need a sharp kick up the arse half the time, to get them to the other side," he said flippantly. "Anyway, I was riding through this town, and people were staring and I — ugh, I saw someone I thought I knew, and I called his name and, uh... wasn't him."

"And...?" Aziraphale prompted, spearing a square of cheese and a grape on his fork.

"Poor bugger who I'd mistaken was just some traveller, stranger in town. He must've seen the Dullahan riding at him, calling his name — popular name, complete coincidence — and, yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dropped dead on the spot. Heart attack."

"Oh dear," he said, wincing.

"Yeah. He was alright about it, though. Good sport," he said, fiddling with the end of one of his braids. "I helped him cross to the other side, and we had a nice chat. Good bloke, wicked sense of humour."

"You charming devil. You made friends with him after all that?" he said, impressed. 

"Don't know why _you're_ surprised. You thought I was supposed to kill you, but I still managed to shag you," he pointed out, pouring out two glasses of cordial. "More than once, at that."

He huffed, taking the glass from him. "Don't get too smug about it."

"Hear that, Apple?" he replied, leaning toward his belly. "Papa thinks I shouldn't get smug about making you with him."

"I never said that," he said, giving him a light smack on the head. He chuckled, and sat back up. "Leave poor Apple out of it. She doesn't understand all that yet."

He arched a brow. "She?"

"Oh. Um... Did I say that?" he said, a little flustered. He looked away, over the purple-and-yellow flowers sprawling out around them. "Slip of the tongue."

"Really? Cause it didn't sound like that," he said, shuffling closer, watching his face carefully. "Anathema let the cat out of the bag, did she?"

"... Possibly."

His eyebrows climbed even higher. "When?" he said.

"At our last appointment, when you were a smidge late," he said guiltily. "She just out and said it, all businesslike! Their aura had finally displayed one way or another, she said, and it's female. Just like that. I was quite annoyed, I don't mind telling you!"

"Yeah," he said faintly, running his hand over his belly.

"And I didn't tell you because I thought, well, there's no sense in spoiling the surprise for you, too," he continued, growing more irate by the second. "I do hope you aren't too — um, Crowley? Are you listening to me?"

"A girl," the Dullahan muttered, spellbound, doubled over in an attempt to press himself as close as physically possible to the baby. " _Our_ girl... Little Apple, our princess..."

Aziraphale's body relaxed of its own accord, losing its grip on his annoyance. He released it all in a long sigh. "I... I was going to suggest it after the birth, but... I know what I'd like to call her," he said, stroking Crowley's hair. "For her common name."

"Hm?"

"Winnifred," he said, and Crowley sat up immediately.

"That's such a stuffy name," he blurted out without thinking. Aziraphale scowled.

"It's very traditional here, I'll have you know," he said, turning his nose up. "It means peace, and reconciliation. I thought it quite apt, considering... She's proof that these last couple of years of hardship was worth it, isn't she?"

Crowley sighed. Yeah, that was fair enough, really. "Point taken. M'not gonna call her that unless she's in trouble, though," he said, wrapping an arm around him.

"Oh? What will you be calling her, then?" he said, crossing his arms in mock offence. 

He pursed his lips, as if in deep thought. "Freddie," he said finally. 

Aziraphale hummed, mulling the name over in his head. "That is rather sweet, actually," he admitted. "I think I might join you in that."

"Speaking of," he said, dragging the picnic basket a little closer. He reached inside, and pulled out a set of reed panpipes. "I wanted to show you something, for... for when Freddie's born."

"Go on," he said, snuggling closer. Oh, that felt good, finally calling their baby by the name she’d be known as. It brought her one step closer to being a whole person. 

"You're not allowed to laugh," he said, hesitantly raising the instrument to his lips. "I worked hard on this."

"I won't," he said. 

By "worked hard", he meant "screamed at his plants and judged the worth of the song by how well it soothed them afterwards". Still, it counted. He began to blow on the pipes, playing his song. It was slow, holding on to each note like a wolf's howl and sliding seamlessly into the next. His horses lifted their heads, hearing the call. The moor seemed to fall silent as the Dullahan's lullaby danced on the breeze and between the shafts of sunlight, eerie yet loving. Aziraphale was entranced. For the first time, he saw the otherworldliness lingering in Crowley's being, and felt the sense that he was connected to something far beyond this world, and every world besides. A living fae, walking on the border of death... Aziraphale was glad his heart had fallen on the lighter side. Slowly, the lullaby faded out, and Crowley lowered the pipes from his lips.

"Well?" he said, breaking the ethereal silence hanging over the moor. The horses returned to eating grass, and Genesis continued to splash and play in the stream, under his parents' watchful eyes.

"You are the most remarkable fae I have ever met in my life," Aziraphale said, unable to take his eyes off his face, drinking in every last detail as if he might vanish if he dared look away. Crowley pulled an appreciative face.

"I'll take that," he said, setting the panpipes back inside the picnic basket. His ears burned with the praise, the pointed tips turning pink, though he refused to acknowledge it. "Come on, you must be hungry. Enough music, tuck in. Freddie must think your mouth's glued shut."

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale began to refill his plate with the treats on offer. He had to admit, he was right. He was a bit peckish, and he had the most terrible craving for cheese today. He ate the stuff by the forkful — on its own, with fruit, on a sandwich... The cordial went wonderfully with it. Then there was a delightful selection of miniature pies and even some chocolate truffles, for when he'd satisfied his craving. Crowley watched with shameless relish. Every pleased wiggle, every pleasurable groan, every smile... It drove him wild. Still, he waited. When Aziraphale had eaten his fill, and all the plates and glasses had been packed safely back inside the basket, he pulled him in for a deep, passionate kiss. Aziraphale moaned against his mouth. 

"Crowley," he gasped as they pulled back. He could feel his hands tracking a sure and steady course towards his arse. "Is now the best time? We're — We're rather exposed at the moment, dear."

"That can change," he said, his eyes flicking suggestively to his left. He didn't catch on right away, so he accentuated the gesture, jerking his head toward the Cóiste Bodhar. 

Aziraphale gasped, scandalised. "Oh, you — Crowley, no!" he cried, then seemed to consider it for a moment longer. He shot him an enquiring look. "... Are you serious?"

He wiggled his eyebrows and bit his lip, grinning. "Dead serious," he said. He got to his feet, holding out his hand to pull him up after him. He yanked him close, drawing a surprised cry as he stumbled against him, blushing and breathless. "Go on, angel. My treat."

Aziraphale licked his lips. "Hm. When you put it that way..." he said, eyeing the coach with renewed interest. Those seats _were_ sinfully comfortable. "It would be rude to refuse a gift."

Crowley urged him toward the carriage, purring in his ear: "That's the spirit,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to test the suspension for a while now.”


	41. Genesis 3:25 — 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok so, before we start I need to explain, for anyone who hasn’t read the Good Omens novel
> 
> 3:25 — 27 is a very niche reference to the Buggre Alle This Bible, a misprinted Bible referenced in the Good Omens book, which has extra verses in Genesis chapter 3 (a chapter usually of only 24 verses, not 27) reading: 
> 
> [25] And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee? [26] And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my head next. [27] And the Lord did not ask him again.
> 
> ((It also just-so-happens that Genesis means “beginning” and this chapter is set at the end of March!))

The apple hanging from the Blossom Tree was now wider than Crowley was tall. It was too heavy to sway in the breeze anymore, and a good portion of the gardens had been cordoned off beneath it. Should it fall, it was quite likely to kill whoever was unlucky enough to be standing underneath it; Aziraphale would be mortified. At least the apple-skin was red, Crowley joked; you'd hardly see the blood splatter. The Queen was not amused.

"It's ripe, isn't it?" Crowley said, standing in the garden with Anathema, staring at the apple. He chewed his lip impatiently, arms crossed. 

"It looks so," she said impassively. "The baby will be ready any day now."

"You said that last week," he grumbled through gritted teeth, half hoping she wouldn't hear him. 

"Predicting the future isn't an exact science," she said with a pointed glare. "I _estimated_ that he'd go into labour on the twentieth of March. So far, I'm only five days out."

"How much longer before you start to worry?" he said, tapping his foot restlessly. 

She hummed, mulling it over. "Another week, and I'll keep a closer eye on him. If nothing's happened by April, then I'll intervene," she said, and glanced over at him. "Happy now?"

"I'll shut up, if that's what you're asking."

"Thanks."

Aziraphale had withdrawn from royal duties altogether. He'd return to them once he'd given birth and he was back on his feet again but, for now, he just couldn't hold on any longer. He was overburdened by it all. It was a relief to hand most of his executive power back to Crowley. The circumstances were better this time round, at least. He now dedicated much of his time to reading. It did him good, staying on his feet to wander the library, and there was always someone nearby if he needed anything. 

His days were oddly slow, without work to do; pleasantly slow. He got all the sleep he could wish for, meals when he was ready for them, and more time to himself than he'd ever had. He loved it. He sat in the library, in the pool of sunlight streaming in from the window, with a cup of tea by his elbow. This afternoon, it was just him and Freddie. He'd be able to meet her soon, for real. He'd spent so long talking to the little life in his womb that it was hard to imagine holding her in his arms. What would it be like, looking down to see that roundness in his abdomen had disappeared? Well, he'd find out soon. 

He finished his book and, by the time he put it down and had nothing left to focus on, he found himself a bit drowsy. The sunshine was so warm, and the library so quiet... Perhaps he ought to get to his room before he fell asleep on the desk. It would only hurt his back. 

With a few grunts of effort, he lifted himself out of the chair and made his way out of the library. He smiled at a few librarians in passing. They were familiar with the sight of their Queen coming and going by now, his usual poise distorted by the child he was carrying. He always refused help. He was too proud for it, unless it was Crowley who was offering. In that case, he just enjoyed being doted on. His staff were quick on the uptake, and it was now common practice for one of them to quietly slip away to fetch the King when Aziraphale was being especially stubborn about struggling on alone. Not today, though; he made it to the spiral staircase with no trouble. There was a handrail on the wall now, to help him on his way to his room. He was still puffing and panting when he reached the top, one hand on his belly while the other pushed open the bedroom door. He took one step inside and gasped, stopping dead. His belly tightened. A sudden bolt of pain ripped through him. It was breath-stealing, tightening, terrifying and then — 

He felt something running down his leg. He cringed. "Oh, bugger." 

"Sire! Sire! Your majesty!" a guard shouted, wrenching the throne room doors open, severely out of breath. Crowley glanced up from the paper in his hand, slouched back on the throne with Deidre beside him, clipboard in hand.

"What?" he said irritably, pulled from his train of thought. "This better not be another false alarm about Unseelie spies. I keep telling you, they’re _settlers,_ not — "

"The Queen's water just broke, sire," they said, ignoring him. Crowley jolted in shock. "He's going into labour."

 _"Bloody Hell!"_ he shouted, thrusting the paper into Deidre's hands and sprinting down the steps. "Where is he?"

"Master bedroom," called the guard as he raced past, barely stopping to hear the answer. 

Crowley could've won a foot-race with Azrael, at the pace he ran through the halls. He barked _"Move!"_ and _"Out of my way! Coming through!"_ at anyone unfortunate enough to be in his way — though they didn't stay that way for long. He pushed, shoved, dodged and weaved until he skidded to a halt at the foot of the staircase. He could hear activity above already. He pelted it up the stairs, breathing hard. His heart hammered. This was it! Today was the day! He burst into the room, finding Aziraphale already on his back on the bed, with Anathema beside him.

"Angel," Crowley said, grabbing his hand as he skidded to a halt by the bed. He cupped his face. "Are you alright? Do you need anything? I just heard."

He shook his head. "Just your company," he said, squeezing his hand. He nodded at the nurse, who was as calm and collected as ever. "Anathema says we aren't quite, um, underway yet. She'll tell me when I need to push."

He nodded, kissing his forehead. "Right. Good. You're in good hands," he said, with a desperate glance at Anathema. She was too busy checking her charts to pay attention to him which, in some ways, was a comfort. She was focused on the birth. "I'm here. I'll be here every second."

"I should jolly well hope so!" he said, halfway between stressed and exasperated. "You're the one who — ooh, that's odd, that's a very odd feeling — ah, what was I saying? Oh yes. _You're_ the one who did this to me, after all!"

He smiled, and didn't take it personally. Deidre warned him this would happen; the worse the pain got, the more irate Aziraphale would become. It wasn't his fault. "Point taken," he said, rubbing his hand between his. He was a little worried that Aziraphale would break some bones if he squeezed his hand while he pushed, but, well... That's what he got for getting a Grand-Fae Queen knocked up, he supposed. At least there was a nurse on-hand. "I love you."

That made him smile. "I love you too, you old sap."

The apple on the Blossom Tree swayed a little, for the first time in months. Something groaned. It jolted, rustling the bough of petals as it swung dangerously... and fell. The _snap_ of the stem rung clear across the city like the crack of a whip. A long silence followed, before the _boom_ of the fruit hitting the ground. News spread like wildfire. What did it mean? Was the baby okay? No petals fell from the tree, so surely Aziraphale must be unharmed, if nothing else... A heavy blanket of anxiety lay across the city. 

It got worse when the screaming began. It was faint at first, drifting down from the Queen's balcony like the distant cry of a bird, but it got worse. It rose in pitch and volume until the sound pierced the air, and every fae gathered under the Blossom Tree could feel their Queen's pain. Hour by hour passed. Aziraphale's voice grew hoarse and strained. The guards who went to guard the fallen apple sat in morose silence, helplessly listening to the rise and fall of the screams. It seemed to go on forever. There was no question anymore; he was giving birth, and even royalty was not spared the pain. 

"Breathe, Aziraphale," Anathema said, at the end of the bed. "You have to breathe."

He took a deep breath, almost out of spite. "I am breathing!" he snapped. He trembled with pain and exhaustion. Crowley's hand was bruised and sore, but the exertion had robbed Aziraphale of his full strength; all his bones were intact. Another contraction hit, drawing a screech from deep in his chest. 

"Push!"

Crowley had wedged himself close to his side, supporting his head, trying to bolster him through the pain. He hated this. He hated that Aziraphale had to suffer so much for the family he wanted so badly. He wished he could bear it for him. "You're doing so well, angel," he told him, petting his hair as it stuck to its head with sweat. He whimpered. "I'm so proud of — "

A baby's cry silenced him. He choked on his words, hearing that voice for the first time. Aziraphale gasped, feebly trying to sit up and collapsing again. "Crowley — Is that — ?"

Anathema stood up straighter, lifting a tiny pink shape away from the bed. It wriggled and cried, kicking as the nurse began to gently clean away the fluid. Crowley stared in awe. "It's her, angel," he whispered, and felt him sag against his chest in relief. "You did it. She's here."

He gave a weak smile. Anathema cut the umbilical cord, wrapping the newborn heir in a soft towel. "A healthy baby girl," she said quietly. Aziraphale held out his arms, his heart fluttering as she placed his daughter into his arms. She lay against his chest, wriggling and crying, overwhelmed by the sudden vastness of the world she'd been born into. "You’ve had no complications, so I'll leave you to rest for now. I'll come back this evening to weigh her."

She took a step back, taking her medical bag and shutting the door softly behind her. Aziraphale cradled his baby, staring down at her small, pudgy face and damp wisps of red hair, entranced. Her eyes were pressed stubbornly shut. She was so tiny, so precious... Love bloomed in his chest, already dimming the memory of the painful labour. He reached up, pulling the towel down from her face. A little hand gripped the cloth. "Oh, my dear girl..." he murmured, exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. She replied with a plaintive cry. He felt his husband fidget, and heard a half-smothered sob. "Crowley...?"

He looked over his shoulder. Crowley's eyes welled with tears, fixed on the life they'd created together. "Sorry, I just... She's... She's ours," he said, wiping his eyes. His cheeks flushed pink, embarrassed by his own vulnerability. He reached around him, cradling her head, stroking it with his thumb. "Hello, flower."

She let out a cry, and opened her eyes. Aziraphale gasped. "Oh, look!" he said. Freddie stared up at them with wide yellow eyes, sliced through with a dark slitted pupil. "Just like you..."

Crowley bit his fist, trying to muffle another sob. "Oh god, she is," he said. He swallowed thickly. All this time, he'd never considered that Freddie might take after him. People would look at her, and they'd see him in her eyes. She'd wear her ancestry like a gleaming medallion, every day. She was really, wholly, truly _his_ baby.

"I’ve waited so very long for this moment," Aziraphale said, beaming through his tears. Thousands of years, he’d longed for a family, and here it was, at long last.

"D'you think she recognises our voices?" Crowley said hoarsely. Freddie's wide eyes looked between them, curious and uncomprehending. 

"I'm sure she does," he said, snuggling back against his chest. He wasn't entirely wrong. 

Freddie was, mostly, confused. All she'd ever known had been the dark, warm sanctuary of the womb, and now the whole world had opened up around her. The walls were far away, and the air was cold and alien on her skin. Even the soft towel around her was odd. Then... Then, she saw the faces above her, though she didn't know that's what they were yet. She'd never seen movement before. Colour was new. Sound was clearer — but in these new sensations, one thing was familiar. She'd heard those voices before. The words were meaningless, but they sounded gentle, caring, safe. It made her feel... something. She had no way of grasping what it was but, in years to come, it was a feeling she'd know better than any other. It was Freddie's very first taste of love. 

Crowley awoke to a cry. He sat up, glancing around the room with a sense of urgency jolting through him, unable to pinpoint why... until his eyes fell on the crib at the end of their bed. Oh yeah. He was a dad now. He smiled sleepily as he got up, leaving Aziraphale to rest. The birth had drained him completely, and he didn't stir at the sound of Freddie's gurgling. 

He scooped Freddie out of her crib, shushing her gently. "Hey, hey... Let Papa sleep," he said quietly. He couldn't smell anything unpleasant, and she quickly stopped fussing when he began to rock her. She just wanted the comfort. He smiled. "Funny old world, isn't it? You're only a day old, and you've got the Dullahan at your beckon call."

He reached down, holding her little hand between his thumb and forefinger. "Freddie," he said, his heart warmed when her fingers curled around his thumb. "That's your name. We figured it out together, Papa and me. Not bad, eh?"

Aziraphale stirred, cracking open one eye. "Crowley?" he murmured, bleary and tired. "What is it? Is she hungry?"

He walked over, perching on the edge of the bed. "Not yet. You can go back to sleep if you want," he said. Freddie wriggled in his arms, succeeding only in snuggling closer to his chest. "I can watch her until she needs to feed."

"No, no, I'll get up now," he said, pushing himself up. "I'm in dire need of a bath. I can't appear before the court in this state."

Crowley grimaced. "You can't be serious. You just gave birth, take a day off," he said, rolling his eyes. 

"Freddie must meet her people, my dear," he said, sliding off the mattress. He shrugged off his remaining clothes, having not bothered to redress after the strenuous birth. "She's a princess — and a queen, like me."

"She's also a Dullahan," he countered. 

"She can't take on both roles when she grows up," he called in from the bathroom. "We shall have to have another to succeed you."

A ripple of excitement went through him. More children, more just like Freddie, just as precious...? He shook himself out of it. "Oi, don't change the subject!"

"Blast. Foiled again," he said, running the water for the bath. "We'll wait until this afternoon, how about that? I should very much like to stretch my legs today, if nothing else."

Newt stood beside Anathema in the throne room, waiting. The whole court was here, at the usual time, in stilted silence. Nobody from outside the palace visited today. The realm was still waiting with bated breath to see their next Queen. It was taken as a given, even before Anathema said so, that the birth had gone well, since not a single petal had fallen from the tree. Deidre and Lesley whispered animatedly in the corner, and it was a refreshing change to know that now, when dukes talked in hushed tones, they weren't plotting anything nefarious. They were chattering like excited children. 

"How was Crowley?" Newt asked, unable to stop fidgeting. It was odd, with nothing to do. He'd gotten used to working around the clock as a duke, learning the ropes and doing his best.

"Emotional," Anathema said. "He probably cried after I left. You didn't hear that from me."

He scoffed. "I could've guessed. I did live with him once," he said. She cracked a smile. "If he treats his baby anything like his horses, she'll be the most spoilt princess in the world."

"I'm sure Aziraphale will balance things out," she said. Newt was just about to voice his doubt when the throne room doors rattled and swung open. The court stood to attention.

Aziraphale, dressed once more in his familiar waistcoat, smiled as the crowd parted for him. He cradled his daughter to his chest, glancing warmly at Crowley before he began to make his way to his throne. The nobles craned their necks as he passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the baby in that bundle of soft cloth. The Queen mounted the steps, and sighed in deep contentment as he relaxed onto the throne. He felt a tingle over his skin, travelling down his arms to where Freddie lay. She squirmed and gurgled, feeling the magic of the tree for the very first time. She didn't cry. The tree was her ancestral origin; it was as familiar as her own heartbeat. 

"Hello, everyone," Aziraphale said, beaming. He was finally clean, dressed and starting to shake off the exhaustion of labour. Crowley sat on the broad armrest of the throne, staring at his baby's face as if the court wasn't even there. "As I'm sure you're all aware, yesterday, on the twenty-fifth of March, I gave birth to this little miracle in my arms... Her name is Princess Winnifred, the second fae of my dynasty, and the next in line to my throne. I must ask you not to applaud; she's rather sleepy."

The court shared excited glances, clasping their hands together and bouncing on the balls of their feet, knowing they couldn’t raise their voices in happiness without disturbing the baby. Deidre politely cleared her throat, approaching the steps. "We were hoping, sires, that you might accept gifts for the princess," she said, with a small box in her hands. 

They shared a glance. "I don't see why not," Crowley said with a shrug, finally lifting his eyes from Freddie. 

Deidre smiled, and lifted the lid from the box, showing them what was inside. It was a small locket, with a golden sun and moon charm hanging beside it. "For when she's old enough to wear it," she said, handing it to Crowley. He showed the open box to Freddie, who went wide-eyed at the sight of the shiny gold necklace. 

"How lovely," Aziraphale said, and Crowley nodded, replacing the lid and sliding the box into his pocket. He'd find a safe place for it later. 

Someone cleared their throat. Lesley was next, holding a small-yet-intricate wooden imitation of the Cóiste Bodhar. "Maude did this for her, majesties. She's a real talent, isn't she?" he said, handing them the toy. It even had spinning wheels and doors that opened. Crowley was, admittedly, impressed. Someone had done their homework. 

Newt arrived next, with no preamble before he handed them his gift. Aziraphale stifled a laugh. "How creative," he said, with an amused glance at his husband. Crowley arched a brow at Newt. 

"Really?" he said, holding the stuffed red-and-black snake with yellow button-eyes. It was soft, and about as long as Crowley's forearm. "A doll of me?"

Newt shrugged, unapologetic. "Let Winnifred be the judge."

Taking the matter out of his hands, Aziraphale reached over, taking the snake and showing Freddie, making it nod as if it were really alive. Freddie reached out, touching the soft snout. She let out a shrill cry of delight, and smiled. Aziraphale all but melted in his seat. "Oh, Crowley, look! Her first smile," he said, setting the snake down gently on the towel around her. 

Crowley blinked furiously, refusing to cry again, especially in front of the whole court. "Yeah," he croaked, leaning down see that spark of happiness. That toothless little grin, the way it scrunched her cheeks and crinkled the edges of her yellow eyes... He loved her so much it almost hurt. He looked at Newt, who was smugly awaiting a verdict. "Wipe that look off your face. It's still a mick-take."

"You're welcome, your majesty," he said, hopping back down the steps to where Anathema was hiding laughter behind her hand.

There were more gifts — toys, clothes, charms — from the court, and each one was shown to the new princess in turn. She smiled and gurgled, excited by the novel sights now she had begun to grow accustomed to this new world. She adapted fast. The one thing she didn't not like at all, however, was when her parents put her down. That wasn't fun. They made her feel safe — the white one with the soft voice, and the red one with the hypnotic eyes. They were her favourite people, and she didn't want to be away from them. She decided that if they left her alone for too long, she'd cry. That always seemed to get their attention. For now, though, in this new room being showered in gifts and the gentle hum of royal magic, she couldn't have been happier. 

Before long, someone unexpected approached the steps, with a pad of paper and charcoal in hand. She bowed low. "Your majesty. My congratulations," she said, her heart pounding. She didn't know if she was still welcome here. 

"Raziel," Aziraphale said in surprise, sitting up slightly. Crowley looked between them, baffled. Why was he so surprised to see the court painter? Aziraphale turned to him and murmured his brief explanation: "Gabriel's niece."

Crowley set his jaw, shooting a suspicious glance at the young fae. She seemed nervous, withdrawn, glancing this way and that at the contemptuous stares being shot her way. He sighed, and tried to relax. She was just a kid, caught up in a political disaster. It wasn't her fault she was related to that scumbag. "What d'you want?" he said.

She meekly held up her pad of paper. "I was wondering if I might be permitted to do a quick sketch of the princess," she said, avoiding direct eye contact. "To be copied and distributed."

"That would be helpful," Aziraphale said, looking up at his husband. "I don't want to present her to the city in person yet. They mean well, but the noise will frighten her out of her wits."

"Agreed," he said, barely hesitating. He beckoned Raziel up to join them. "Make it quick. She'll need a feed and a rest soon."

Raziel bowed again, murmuring thanks and hurrying up the steps. Aziraphale moved his arm to let her see the young fae, and she set to work immediately. Every so often, she'd tap her pencil, making the colour shift between flesh tones, yellow, and black. Raziel was still mourning for her uncle, that much was plain to see. She didn't condone what he'd done, but nonetheless, they were blood. Her loyalty was to her Queen in the end, but that didn't change the loss she’d felt when she'd heard of Gabriel's death. She was just glad that Aziraphale didn't cast her out on the streets after what her uncle had done... Many Queens would have scorned Aziraphale’s forgiveness, but that was what had earned him his moniker: the most loving, most merciful, of all the fae.

She focused hard on catching Freddie's likeness. It was only a sketch — it would be cruel to expect a baby to sit still for hours on end for a painting, after all — but it would show the people what the King and Queen had made together. When she was finished, she turned the paper around, showing them. 

"Marvellous," Aziraphale said, adjusting his grip on the baby, who had been admirably patient for the time it had taken. 

"S'good, yeah," Crowley said, nodding. He paused. "When the copies are done, give the original to us. It'd look nice on the bedroom wall."

Raziel's cheeks went pink. "Thank you so much, sire," she said, edging back down the steps. "I'll have it copied right away."

That night, it seemed that Freddie had taken a dislike to sleep. They settled her in her crib after dinner, cooed over her in hushed tones, and got in bed themselves. She was awake, crying, less than an hour later. Crowley was up first, sloping over to the crib to rock her back to sleep — which worked, until he tried to put her down, and she started wailing all over again. When he eventually managed to get her back to sleep, it only lasted another few hours before she roused them a second time. This time, she was hungry. Aziraphale fed her, and she fell back asleep relatively easily until the small hours of the morning, when she needed changing. Aziraphale and Crowley both got out of bed, so bleary-eyed that they didn't even notice each other until they bumped heads beside the crib.

The next morning at breakfast, Crowley fell asleep on his fist, and Aziraphale had shadows under his eyes. He was used to running on little sleep, at least. His royal duties had occasionally been known to keep him awake at night. Freddie, miraculously, seemed wide awake. Her fathers found it impossible to stay annoyed with her when she smiled and waved her hands in the air, once managing to grab the end of one of Crowley's braids and give it a surprisingly strong tug. 

The day was split between passing Freddie back and forth between them, and trying to run the Queendom. They worked only half-time compared to their usual schedules, letting the dukes take the lead while they concerned themselves mostly with their newborn. By lunchtime, they were relieved to get outside, and bring Freddie to the secluded, peaceful sanctuary of the private garden.

Crowley held her, glad of the quietness, snacking idly on the cocktail sausages on the table. Aziraphale was treating himself to a veritable feast today. They were both tired, still getting into the swing of parenthood. Aziraphale had a hearty helping of sandwiches before he finally noticed the way Crowley stared longingly at the warm rocks beside the pond. 

"I'll hold her if you'd like to do some sunbathing, dear," he said, pulling him from his thoughts. "I can eat one-handed."

He shook his head. "No, it's alright. It's not as good in this form anyway," he said. 

"Then change. Freddie won't mind," he said, helping himself to some pork pie. "She likes her serpent doll."

"A giant snake-monster isn't the same as a stuffed toy, angel," he said, glancing down at his baby. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Give her here, and change," he said, taking her from his arms before he could argue. Crowley sighed, half reluctant and half relieved to finally stand and reach for his other form.

The transformation was swift and smooth. He arranged his coils so as not to knock the table, slithering around the pond a few times to lay himself out on the rocks while still resting his head by Aziraphale's feet. The Queen smiled, bouncing Freddie gently. "Look at that, Freddie. That’s Daddy," he said, angling her to look at the serpent on the ground. Crowley tensed. When he didn't hear any frightened crying, he lifted his head, propping himself up to loom over her in Aziraphale's arms. "See? Isn't he beautiful?"

Freddie was silent for a moment. She recognised those eyes, from the shape to the colour, to the kindness behind them. They were bigger than before, but she knew her Daddy when she saw him. She smiled, reaching upward. Snakes couldn't smile, but Aziraphale could feel Crowley's joy as he lowered his snout to press against Freddie's palm. Her tiny hand looked even smaller, pressed against the broad scales between his narrow nostrils, brushing over them just like she had greeted her serpent-doll.

"Good party trick, eh?" Crowley said quietly. "I'll teach it to you, someday."

Aziraphale basked in the tenderness for a moment, watching Freddie tap curiously on Crowley's snout. The Queen chuckled, imagining her as a little serpent, wrapped around his pinky like a signet ring. "You know, I think I've become rather fond of snakes," he said. 

"Yeah?" Crowley said, his cold blood growing warm as the sun began to do its work on his scales. "Aziraphale, Queen of Serpents... got a nice ring to it, that."

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Try another."

"... Queen of Omens?" he suggested, his tongue flicking out. He mulled it over, glanced down at their baby, and felt an idea click into place. "Oh, oh, here's one for Freddie: _Killer Queen._ Get it? Cause she's a Dullahan?"

"Yes, I get it," he said, stroking his head with a tolerant smile. It was the name of a song Crowley rather liked. "Let's leave the nicknames to the bards, shall we?"

He huffed, and the puff of breath made Freddie wriggle and squeal. "Ack, sorry, sorry," Crowley said, softly nuzzling her. She settled again after a moment, stopping just short of crying. "Ssshhh, sssshhh... That's it. Daddy's sorry. I won't do it again."

"I'm sure you're forgiven," Aziraphale said, rubbing Freddie's head as she settled down, her eyes beginning to shut. It was warm and, although she didn't yet understand her cold-blooded nature, she shared her father's love of sunshine. She gurgled softly, beginning to drift off to sleep. "Settle down now, my dear. You deserve a nap after last night."

"And you?"

"We'll take turns," he offered, with no intention of waking his husband before he'd caught up properly on his sleep. Crowley hummed, sinking down onto the soft mossy ground, the scent of his angel and his baby wreathing around him like a delicate blanket. Aziraphale sat back, basking in the peaceful atmosphere of love and contentment.

"You sure?" Crowley asked, his voice already growing sleepy, lulled by the perfect sunny afternoon. 

"Quite sure," he said, with an adoring glance down at his husband. "Rest now, my darling serpent. I do believe we've come to the end of a rather grand adventure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my friends, is the last chapter of the main storyline. Only the epilogue now remains, and that will be it...
> 
> ...... sort of. I’ve been talking to my friend CrazyBeCat, who’s been an incredible help behind the scenes (remember to show them some love too! They made this whole story possible with their support and I can’t thank them enough for that), and I have one or two more ideas that I might put into one-shots for this AU after it’s finished, so if you’re up for that, stay subscribed to me or the new series for this story “The Blossom Realm (Omens of Another Kind Universe)” for updates! 
> 
> I have also started drafting a sequel-of-sorts, which I make no promises about publishing, which crosses over with a different (quite old) fandom too... That one is just a bit of fun, really, and you won’t need to read it to understand the other accompanying one shots that may get added to the series. 
> 
> I hope to see some of you sticking around for future updates! The community around this story has just been incredible and it by no means has to end all at once just because the story is complete. Feel free to comment again, ask me questions, tag me in any art you might do, and keep the positive vibes flowing. You’ve been a delight, each and every one of you <3


	42. Epilogue: An Endless Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note before we start — I have now begun to draft my first original short story! Check out @worseoriginals on tumblr for updates

Three months ago, Princess Freddie had celebrated her tenth birthday. She had come a long way since she was little more than fruit on a tree; the apple that had grown alongside her seemed a distant memory now (though the cider brewed from its flesh sat in the royal stores, brought out for only the most prestigious occasions). Freddie, for her part, was proud to have finally reached double digits, ever-aspiring to her fathers’ incredible four-digit ages. Ever since she'd learnt what it meant for a queen, to grow older, she'd loved every second of it. Every passing moment made her stronger. Every second that ticked by, she was more than she was before. 

The other kids in town weren't so philosophical. They often found the princess odd, owing to her upper-class upbringing, but she was also funny, and a good sport. She'd inherited both her fathers' formidable magics, and had been taught from a young age how to reign it in, so she could play nice with the other children. Aside from a few scraped knees, all went well. Freddie often went down to the city on weekends to play with her friends, accompanied by at least one guard, or sometimes her Dad. Now and then, Aziraphale went down, and those days were always nerve-wracking for the town’s parents, whose children weren't exactly versed in royal etiquette. They had nothing to fear, though. The Queen had spent so many days dealing with the Them's antics that nothing fazed him anymore. 

The Them had done their fair share of growing up by now, of course. Though they were far from being mature fae, they had left their childhood long behind them, and begun to take on more responsibility befitting of 22-year-olds. Pepper was now apprentice to the Lieutenant, and was proving herself to be the most promising swordsperson of the guard. Crowley had already decided to promote her straight to Lieutenant once her mentor retired, probably a millennia from now. He'd trust no-one else but her to run the guard — until another fiery no-nonsense fae came along to succeed her, too.

Brian was an assistant gardener. He'd never had a problem rolling up his sleeves and getting his hands dirty, and the Head Gardener was deeply impressed by his commitment. The two of them could often be found together by the hedgerows, chattering excitedly about what jobs they'd be doing tomorrow, and idly feeding the hedgehogs as the sun went down. Brian was well-suited to an outdoor life, and he had a very bright future ahead in the palace gardens.

Adam and Wensleydale had taken an interest in court life. Wensley's interest in accountancy was no shock to anyone; even at his age, he made a mercilessly efficient clerk, and could be counted upon to turn in the most meticulous reports to the Head Treasurer (whose role, Aziraphale suspected, the young man might have an eye for). Adam had similar lofty ambitions; he looked up to his mother, and had begun shadowing Lesley at court, preparing for a junior position in the palace. One day, maybe Adam may make a noble successor to his mother. Both him and Wensleydale had an appreciation of the value of loyalty and honesty that went well beyond their years, having spent their childhoods navigating the treacherous waters of what had begun to be referred to as the "Pre-King Era" of their history.

No matter what they did with their time, all four of the Them loved the princess. She was a familiar sight, scurrying to and from the gatehouse to visit her Aunt Pepper, or playing hide-and-seek with Uncle Brian in the garden. Uncle Wensleydale and Uncle Adam always turned a blind eye and a sly, nostalgic smile to the mischief she caused in the throne room. A small headful of wavy red hair was always a surefire omen of shenanigans, especially if those bright yellow eyes began to peek around corners or crinkle in laughter.

Today, though, she was behaving herself. She sat on her Dad's knee, people-watching on a bench in town, and talking about what stars they'd see through the telescope tonight. "Will Papa come and look, too?" she asked, snuggling into his chest.

Crowley hummed. "Depends if he's up to it, flower," he said, stroking her hair that was so much like his own. Freddie took after Crowley for the most part, with hints of Aziraphale in her cute upturned nose and the downy white baby-feathers on her wings. "You know he gets tired these days."

She nodded. "I know," she said. She'd been behaving herself for weeks and weeks now, because Papa was working very hard on growing new life — and not just in the Queendom at large. The Blossom Tree was bearing fruit again. She looked up at Crowley with a hint of worry. “He’ll be okay though, won’t he?” 

“He’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry about that,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Freddie idolised her Papa, and it had been a little unnerving for her sometimes, seeing him under this extra strain. There were good days and bad, just like any pregnancy. Crowley daren’t tell her that it was technically all his fault, for fear she might never forgive him. “I won’t let anything bad happen.”

“And then I’ll be a big sister,” she said with a smile, brightening up again. Crowley nodded, humming in agreement, going all fuzzy inside when he saw how much she already loved the life growing in Aziraphale’s belly, even if it worried her sometimes. She’d make a fantastic older sister. Freddie suddenly sat up, something across the square catching her eye. "Who's that?"

"Who?" Crowley said, trying to track her gaze. He didn't know everyone by name, but he knew most city-centre faces in passing. 

"That man in the rags," she said. Bluntness was a particular trait of hers, one Aziraphale hoped she'd outgrow by the time she came to diplomacy, while Crowley hoped she'd keep it. 

He finally spotted who she was talking about. A rugged, bearded fae stood by the monument in the town square. The statue had been erected as an apology to Crowley, to replace the one he’d accidentally destroyed on the day of his violent exile: in its place, a life-sized marble Serpent-of-Prophecy stared benevolently down at the people. The stranger stood beneath it, craning his neck to look up into the statue’s stained glass eyes. He was dressed in a hodge-podge of ratty second-hand clothes, blending Seelie and Unseelie fashions oddly. It was an impressive feat, to stand out in this Queendom, where both races of fae now lived side by side under a mixed royal family. Still, there was something familiar about him, something in the way he stood...

Crowley took Freddie's hand, walking cautiously over to the fae. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him jump and turn to look. "Michael?" Crowley said, his eyes widening. He wrinkled his nose in shock. "Is that you?"

He jumped, and hastily took a step back to bow to the King. "It is," he said, his voice softer and humbler than it had been before. He straightened up again with an awkward smile. "I didn't think I'd run into you so soon, your majesty. I’ve only just arrived."

He glanced down at the child beside Crowley, and did a double take. Her eyes mirrored her father's perfectly. He reeled for a moment. This was the unborn baby he’d killed to protect, years ago... Crowley chuckled. "Yeah, well, I get about. This is Freddie," he said proudly, and she waved. "Our eldest."

"Pleasure to meet you, your highness," Michael said, with a bow and an extra flourish that made her giggle. In an instant, he was catapulted back six-thousand-and-ten years or thereabouts, greeting her father in almost the same way. Ah, how times changed — and how they stayed the same. 

"And you," she said, and tilted her head. Good manners were a keystone of her upbringing, but childish curiosity often won out. "Who are you, though?"

"An old friend," Crowley interrupted with surprising warmth. Michael inclined his head gratefully. “He did a lot to help us, before you were born.”

“Oh! During the post-coronation socio-political and judicial upheaval?” she said brightly. Michael blinked in surprise; impressive vocabulary for a ten-year-old. Still, he thought fondly, he shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aziraphale’s heir. 

Unfazed, Crowley nodded. “Yeah, that,” he said, ruffling her hair. She protested, laughing, and batted him off. Michael’s lips curled upwards, watching the familiar exchange. _I did the right thing,_ he thought, feeling the weight of guilt ease slowly off his back. His crime had haunted him for years, but now, he could finally see what he’d made that sacrifice for, with his own eyes. He took a deep breath of the clean summer air, as familiar as the back of his hand. It had all been worth it, in the end.

Crowley startled him from his thoughts by clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Aziraphale will want to see you,” he said, starting toward the palace. 

"He hasn't had a change of heart, then?" he said, trailing after him timidly. It was a thought that had crossed his mind a thousand times since he'd left. Would Aziraphale grow bitter in his absence? Would a sense of betrayal take root, and fester over time? He couldn't count on a warm welcome in the palace after so long spent away.

"Who, _my_ Aziraphale?" Crowley said with a smile, scooping Freddie into his arms to speed up the walk. "He hasn't even changed his waistcoat since you left, let alone anything else. He'll be happy to see you."

Michael smiled a little, and settled into silence as they approached the palace. He glanced up, drinking in the sight of that awe-inspiring tree, his heart fluttering like the petals in the light summer breeze. It was everything he remembered — and a little more. His eyebrows shot up. "He's pregnant?" he said, spotting an unripe apple hanging among the white. His eyes quickly picked out another green freckle, on a different bough. "Twins?"

Crowley huffed a little, glancing at Freddie. "Twins," he confirmed, thinking back to the sleepless nights he'd spent caring for Freddie, and imagining it doubled. He would love them with more of his heart than he had in his chest, but god, they'd be the death of him. The myth of the zombie Dullahan would come true when the twins arrived and robbed him of any hope of sleep for a year or two. "Good thing you're back. You can be the royal nanny."

He brightened up, missing his thinly veiled sarcasm. "You think that would be okay?"

"Uh... sure," he said. Michael had already killed to protect their family; he could most definitely be trusted with the kids. He set Freddie down on the stairs. She immediately broke into a run, hurrying to reach the doors before the two grown-ups. He shook his head fondly. "Careful! Don't fall, Freddie."

"I won't!"

Aziraphale checked his watch, wondering why Crowley was late for lunch. He'd taken Freddie to get some fresh air, since she'd been cooped up in her lessons all morning. Her tutors were very pleased with her progress. She was proving to be a precocious child, and she took to palace life like a duckling to water. She enjoyed history lessons, and geography, but more than anything she loved the afternoons she spent with her Papa, learning his magic. A Queen's most important gift was the ability to make life: to grow plants, attract animal life, and even support whole ecosystems and cities just with their own power. One day, it would be her duty. For now, it was fun, valuable family time. 

Aziraphale’s keen ears caught the quick pit-pat of small feet rushing toward the dining room. He sighed in relief. Good. He rubbed a hand over his round belly, thankful he didn’t have to go looking. Carrying multiple babies at once was far more strenuous than just the one. He was glad they’d left it a decade before expanding the family, because he couldn’t begin to imagine the stress of having a toddler and two babies to contend with. 

Freddie pushed her way inside, and ran to hop onto her chair beside him. “Hi Papa,” she said, shuffling around on the chair until her posture was straight, like his. She’d been imitating him ever since she learnt to walk; Crowley had spent many an hour fondly watching a young Freddie trail Aziraphale around, like a duckling following its mother, trying to copy his proud, regal gait. “Dad won’t be long. We met someone in the town square today.”

“Oh?” he said, pouring her a glass of orange juice. “Who would that be, my dear?”

“An old friend, he said. He had a beard and wore really weird clothes,” she said. He shot her a look over his spectacles, reminding her of the talk they’d had last week: _words can hurt, Freddie._ “Sorry. He wore clothes I hadn’t seen before, I meant.”

He hummed in approval. “Someone your father knew before he came here, perhaps. Care for a sausage roll?” he said, passing her the plate. 

“Yes, please,” she said, eagerly taking one. “Oh, and Dad said you knew him too. He’s bringing him here.”

“He’s what?” he said, brow furrowing. As if on cue, the dining room doors swung open, and Crowley sauntered in. 

“Hey, angel. Look what the snake dragged in,” he quipped, gesturing over his shoulder. A man trailed behind him, one Aziraphale didn’t recognise. He wore a frayed black tunic over silvery breeches and leather boots, and anywhere the fabric had been torn it had been repaired with a different colour of garish thread. 

Aziraphale sat up as much as his pregnancy would allow, and put on a polite voice: “Hello there. Terribly sorry, have we met?” he said, internally cursing his mischievous husband for springing these surprises on him without warning. No wonder where Freddie gets it from!

The man smiled, lingering nervously by the door as Crowley threw himself into his chair. “A long time ago,” he said, clasping his hands together. The idiosyncrasy rang a distant bell in Aziraphale’s memory. “It’s good to see you again, your majesty.”

His breath caught. “Michael,” he realised, finally seeing past the beard, the grime and the admittedly really weird clothes. He looked at Crowley in shock, who nodded gently, tilting his head at the former duke. 

“Go hug him, angel. Poor bloke deserves it.”

The Queen scrabbled to get out of his chair, hurrying around the table to his oldest friend. Michael flushed pink as he was pulled into a warm, familiar hug; the curve of Aziraphale’s pregnant belly pressed into his abdomen, humming with the new life Michael hoped he’d find when he returned. Everything was finally going well. At long last, Aziraphale had all the happiness he deserved. With an undignified sniffle, Michael wrapped his arms around him, hugging back. They pulled apart after a moment, grasping one another’s forearms. 

Aziraphale had gone misty-eyed, searching his face and finding more and more of Michael with every detail he saw. Every freckle, mole, wrinkle and scar was exactly how he remembered, dredged up from memories he didn’t know he even had. It went beyond the physical, too. There was a twinkle in his eye — something less or something more, he couldn’t tell, but he’d seen it once before. This was not a palace duke. It was Michael; his friend. The road had stripped back his years of wealth and status, like shifting a stone from the mouth of a tomb, and revealed the person trapped inside. Thousands of years ago, an optimistic young traveller had found a Queen beneath a sapling apple-blossom. That fairy had been lost to the shifting sands of time and politics, but today... Today, he’d finally come home again. 

“I look different, I know,” Michael said self-consciously.

“My dear boy,” he said warmly, with a beaming smile. “You look more like yourself than you have for a long time.”

He let out a deep breath, draining the tension from his shoulders. “I’m glad,” he said, and gave a wry chuckle. “I don’t think high rank suits me very well, you know.”

“I’m inclined to agree. We’ll find you a nicer job, once you’ve settled in — now come, sit down!” he said, pulling him towards the small round table. “You must have the most marvellous stories from your adventures.”

Freddie perked up immediately. “Stories?” she said, bouncing in her chair and fixing her awe-filled eyes onto Michael. 

He tentatively sat in the chair, unfamiliar with rich surroundings after so long on the road. “I’ve got a few tales to tell,” he said, looking at the royal couple for permission. Crowley entwined his hand with Aziraphale’s, and nodded. 

“Go on. We all want to know what you’ve been up to,” he said, settling into a comfortable slouch while Aziraphale tucked into his lunch. He smirked. “Nothing mischievous, I hope.”

He ducked his head. “Nothing illegal,” he said evasively. Aziraphale tutted softly, rolling his eyes with an affectionate sigh. “Well, where should I start...?”

“The first bit,” Crowley said unhelpfully. Freddie giggled, and wriggled forward in her chair, nibbling on her pastry and eagerly waiting for the tale to begin. Aziraphale watched her with immeasurable fondness; his baby, his heir, his most precious treasure in all the world... The affection warmed Michael like a roaring campfire, cosy and safe.

He cleared his throat, and leaned his elbows on the table. “Alright, here goes,” he said, his words punctuated by the singing nightingales and rustling flowers drifting through the open window on a perfect summer’s day. He couldn’t help but smile. “In the Beginning...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... wow. I can’t believe it’s over. What a ride it’s been, what a journey! I have to say, this work wouldn’t have been nearly as special if not for the amazing love and support from the community reading it. There’s been fanart, and comments, and asks left on my tumblr about it and just...!! Oh my god. It’s so much more than I could have ever hoped for, and I can’t overstate how much I love you all for the support you’ve given me along the way. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and just do me one favour when you close this tab and move on to the next great fic — take good care of yourselves. You deserve it.


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